


therefore each to other bound

by copacet



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beautiful Golden Fools, F/M, Family Drama, Marriage, Most People Live/Only A Few People Die, Political Drama, Pregnancy, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-07-11 20:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copacet/pseuds/copacet
Summary: There was only one thing worse in Jaime’s mind than King’s Landing court politics, which he at least was usually able to ignore and let Cersei handle, and that was Lannister family politics, which he always ended up directly in the gods-damned middle of.Having escaped Stark custody, Jaime returns to King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater—thus solving some of his family's problems while also creating several new ones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/gifts).



**Cersei I**

Cersei Lannister sat atop the Iron Throne with her son in her arms and prepared to die.

Tommen sat quietly in her lap as she spun him one final bedtime story, too young to understand the danger. Her voice couldn’t quite drown out the sounds of the battle outside as they echoed through the walls of the keep. Tears pricked at her eyes and she could hear her voice breaking; she had never expected to die this far from Jaime. 

But if she was going to die—if her son was going to die—she damn well wasn't going to give _Stannis Baratheon_ the satisfaction of being the one to do it. Cersei uncapped the vial in her hand.“I will keep you safe, my love,” she lied, as she brought the poison to her son’s trusting lips. “I promise you.”

The doors burst open. Rising to her feet, Cersei hardly had time to fear the swords of the armored men who entered before one drew off his helmet to reveal the youthful face of Loras Tyrell. The men around him parted as two more unexpected figures strode to the front of their ranks. One was her father, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. And beside him...beside him...

“Jaime,” she breathed. The vial slipped from her fingers and shattered on the ground.

Her father said: “The battle is over. We have won!”

Jaime said: “ _Cersei_.”

And Cersei thought she must be dreaming, for it was her brother’s voice and her brother’s face, and her brother, her _brother_ , standing strong and tall and handsome in his armor. She stared at him, and he stared back with eyes as familiar as her own, eyes that _were_ her own, and then he was sheathing his sword as he shouldered past the last few men and ran toward her. 

“Jaime,” she said again, letting go of her death grip on Tommen and descending the steps. “Jaime!” She flew towards him.

She collapsed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face into his shoulder and breathing in the metallic scent of blood and armor. One of his hands gripped her waist so tightly that she hoped he might leave bruises, while the other tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck. Cersei tilted her head back, just a little, just enough to look at him, and he cupped her chin in a gentle caress, brushing his thumb along her cheek.

Jaime’s eyes flickered to her lips, and only then did Cersei remember that they were not alone, that people were watching; their lord father, even.

She tried to step away from him, back to a respectable distance, but Jaime, of course, only tightened his arms around her, dropping his hand from her face down to the small of her back to crush their bodies together. She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed against the metal of his armor, but he was utterly unmovable. 

Jaime pressed his forehead against hers. “Let me go,” she whispered, knowing what the answer would be.

At his fervent _“Never_ ,” she gave in, as she always did, dropping her head to rest against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, and she could feel his warm breath as he dragged his lips across her hair. If they had been alone, Cersei would have wept for joy.

But they were not alone, and a commotion from the soldiers closest to the door caught her attention. Shouts and whoops filled the air, until even Jaime turned from her to see what had caused the ruckus, though he kept one hand clasped around her own. 

The Tyrell ranks parted to reveal a man—no, a _woman_ , at least six feet tall and dressed in armor, with a square jaw and short-cut blonde hair. In one hand she held a bloodied longsword. In the other, she held the head of Stannis Baratheon. Cersei stared.

“You!” exclaimed Ser Loras. He drew his sword, and the men closest to him stepped away. “That’s her, the woman who killed—” but then he faltered, as if unsure of his own words.

The woman turned to him. “I didn’t kill Renly.” She raised the severed head in her hand, holding it out towards the young knight, who flinched away. “I swear that on my life. I _avenged_ him.”

“But you…” Loras began, then trailed off. “Perhaps I did misjudge, but you…”

“Ser Loras.” Lord Tywin’s voice commanded the attention of everyone in the hall. “You know this woman?”

“I do,” the boy responded, straightening his shoulders. “May I present to you Brienne of Tarth, the daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth, and one of Renly’s Kingsguard.”

“I see.” Lord Tywin approached the woman, and examined her. “Kingsguard to a traitor—but did you kill Stannis yourself?”

“I did.” She held up her bloodied sword.

“Then you’ve proved your loyalty. Do you serve the Tyrells now?”

“No,” the woman said. “And no. Stannis was my enemy for what he did to Renly, but my loyalty is not to the Tyrells, or to you.”

“Oh?” Lord Tywin raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain? My family rewards loyalty, and we would reward a loyal woman for killing one of our enemies. A Lannister always pays his debts.”

The woman looked at the soldiers around her, then sheathed her sword. When she spoke again, Cersei understood why. “I serve Lady Catelyn Stark. If you would give me any reward, let me return her daughters to her.”

Cersei almost laughed aloud. Foolish of her to admit her allegiance. Why not lie, when surrounded by the Starks’ worst enemies? But then, Ned Stark had been much the same, so perhaps the woman and her masters were well matched.

“Then you serve a traitor still,” Lord Tywin responded. “Though you have done us a great service today: for that and for your father’s sake, you might be pardoned, if you swear fealty to King Joffrey now.”

The woman shook her head. “I swore an oath to serve Lady Catelyn. I mean to keep it.”

“Very well,” said Lord Tywin. He turned to the soldiers beside him. “Take her to a tower cell. And have that head mounted on the castle walls.”

It occurred to Cersei to wonder why Catelyn Stark might have sent one of her sworn swords all the way to King’s Landing. Chasing an escaped prisoner, perhaps? Well, she hadn’t caught him, though she must have come close to arrive during the same battle. If she’d been just a little faster...Cersei shivered at the thought, then reassured herself that it wouldn’t have mattered. Stannis might have been weak enough to be defeated by a woman, but not Jaime.

Lord Tywin watched the woman as she was escorted from the room, then turned towards his children. Cersei dropped Jaime’s hand; a weak remedy, she knew, for their earlier display. Thankfully, her father didn’t comment. “Stannis’s death will make things simpler,” he said, “but there’s still a great deal of clean-up left to do. Jaime—”

Jaime cut him off. “I’ll escort the queen to her chambers,” he said brightly. “She’s had a terribly difficult day, I’m sure.”

“Jaime,” their father growled, but Jaime was already striding towards the door, pulling Cersei along by the elbow. It was folly, she knew—with the rumors so widespread, and the audience to their reunion, they ought to avoid being alone together until they could do so without attracting attention—but Cersei too ignored Lord Tywin’s calls as she and her brother swept from the room.

* * *

**Jaime I**

Jaime bolted the door to Cersei’s chambers, then turned around and kissed her fiercely. 

“We shouldn’t,” she gasped against his mouth, though her nimble, practiced fingers were already making quick work of his breastplate; it clattered to the floor as he pushed her towards the bed. “You should go back, make an appearance, you should—”

 _Should, should, should._ What he _should_ have done was fuck her already, right there in front of everyone, right on the Iron Throne. He slipped his hand down her side to the metal corset she wore over her dress, golden and embossed with lions. _Armor to match mine,_ he thought, and then remembered that the borrowed armor he wore was only plain steel, not gilded. Jaime ran his fingers over the surface and tugged at the laces as Cersei divested him of his vambraces and started on the clasps of his coat. He kissed her again, and she tossed the coat aside as she took the last few steps towards the bed and pulled him down upon it. 

The corset fell away. The gown Cersei wore underneath was a frustrating thing, though a striking scarlet color against her pale skin. He tore it off her, and she made a noise of protest but drew her underskirts up around her waist. Jaime slipped his hand between her legs and found her already wet, thank the gods; he’d waited a year, he couldn’t wait any longer, and Cersei couldn’t either; her hand was on his cock, guiding him to her as she gasped his name. He pushed inside.

And finally, he was whole. 

Jaime didn’t move, at first. He rested his forehead against Cersei’s, and listened to her breathe hard and in unison with him. Her hand found his, and he laced their fingers together.

But Cersei was impatient. “Come on,” she said, “come on, I’ve got you, you’re home, _come on_ ,” and so he began to work his hips, relishing the feeling of being joined to her. Cersei kissed his ear, then worked her mouth down his neck, biting and sucking. Jaime wanted to claim her in return, give her marks to match his own—and then he realized that he _could_ , that there was no Robert to fear seeing the blemishes. He buried his face in her shoulder and tasted her sweet skin as she raked her nails down his back. 

As always, his climax came upon him in the same instant as hers, and he collapsed beside her on the bed as her gasps and shudders faded. They lay together afterwards, a rare indulgence. He supposed they’d been reckless enough already today that one more indiscretion hardly mattered. 

Laying on his side, Jaime gazed upon his sister’s face as she gazed back at him. Conjuring Cersei’s image in his mind had kept him sane through his long months of imprisonment, but daydreams and fantasies were nothing compared to the flesh and blood of her. A few hours ago, he hadn’t even been certain he’d find her alive. Jaime had caught up with the Lannister-Tyrell host only a few days outside King’s Landing, and his father had admitted to not being certain whether they’d arrive in the city in time to intercept Stannis Baratheon. Until he’d arrived to find the battle in progress, he’d been unable to keep the images from his mind of Cersei dead, of their children dead. 

“Was Joffrey in the fight?” Jaime asked, idly, running his fingers through his sister’s golden hair. It probably ought to have occurred to him to ask about the boy sooner, though he was certain Cersei wouldn’t have allowed him this tryst unless she knew already that her son was safe.

“At first,” Cersei told him. “I recalled him to his chambers when the battle took a turn for the worse. He’s unharmed.”

Not the wisest strategic decision—but Joffrey wasn’t particularly skilled with a blade; his departure might have saved his life, even if it dispirited the other soldiers. Jaime would have expected nothing else from Cersei. Tommen was safe too; Jaime had seen him in the throne room. “And Myrcella?” He was surprised Cersei hadn’t kept their daughter close with her and Tommen, come to think of it. 

“You didn’t hear?” Cersei’s voice was bitter. “Your _brother_ sold her off to Dorne. She’s betrothed to their Prince Trystane.”

Jaime winced; sending Myrcella away would have broken Cersei’s heart. Still, it was a good match, and he wasn’t surprised Tyrion had thought of it. “He’s your brother, too,” he reminded her. “Where is he, by the way?”

Beside him, Cersei stiffened. Jaime propped himself up on his elbow. “What?” he said. “What is it?” Cersei averted her eyes, and Jaime’s heart began to pound. Surely nothing could have happened to Tyrion, in the time since he’d been gone. Surely Cersei or Father would have mentioned—no, no, of course they wouldn’t. “Cersei, is Tyrion all right?”

“Oh, calm yourself,” she snapped. “He was fine the last I saw of him, before the battle.”

 _Before the battle._ “Was he with you in Maegor’s Holdfast?” Jaime asked, but a cold suspicion had begun to creep into his stomach.

Cersei snorted. “He may not be much of a man,” she told him, “but he is more man than that.”

Jaime sat up straight. “Are you saying he joined the fight?”

“Oh, he led the fight.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him back towards her. “Of course, he wouldn’t have needed to if _you_ had been here.” 

There was that bitter tone again. How could he have forgotten for even a moment that Cersei could be as sour as she was sweet? “I came as fast as I could!” Jaime protested, yanking his arm out from her grip. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and started looking for his clothing. “Did you hear any word of him? Do we even know if he’s alive?” Tyrion was the cleverest of all of them, but he was no fighter. What had he been thinking? _Cersei’s right. I should have been here._

“Oh, he’s probably still alive,” Cersei muttered from the bed, as Jaime pulled his tunic over his head. “I’m not _that_ lucky.”

“Cersei!” Jaime yanked his breeches back up around his waist and started doing up the laces. His brother and sister had never gotten along well, but over the past decade or so, he’d thought they’d settled into a nice pattern of ignoring each other completely whenever Jaime wasn’t around. He hadn’t quite considered until now the implications of the two spending the past year ruling the realm together without him to play the peacekeeper. Evidently, the experience had done nothing to reconcile them. He searched the room for his leather coat, lifting up the bedcovers until he finally found it under the torn remains of Cersei’s gown.

“Come back to bed,” Cersei implored him. “The battle is over. Either he’s dead or he isn’t; you can’t help him now.”

Jaime ignored her. He considered his armor and wished it wouldn’t be too suspicious to leave it on the floor of Cersei’s chamber; even with a squire there to help him, the damn thing took an age to put on. Under other circumstances, he might have asked Cersei for assistance—she’d always loved the chance to touch his armor, or even to wear it herself—but he knew well enough she wouldn’t help him for this, for Tyrion. 

Jaime pictured his little brother, dead or trampled or bleeding. Swearing aloud, he picked up his breastplate.

* * *

**Tyrion I**

Tyrion drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes voices and faces floated around him: Pycelle, Podrick, Jaime. Sometimes there was only darkness. Often, there was pain.

Finally, his head cleared and his vision focused. It _was_ Jaime sitting at his bedside; he’d wondered if he’d dreamed that. But there was no mistaking his brother, with his handsome face and white cloak and golden hair a little longer than when Tyrion had seen him last. His presence was a nice enough surprise that for a moment, Tyrion could almost forget that his other sibling had tried to have him murdered.

“Tyrion!” Jaime’s face broke into a broad smile. “You’re awake! Thank the gods. No, don’t get up—I’ll fetch Maester Pycelle.” He made as if to stand. 

“Wait,” Tyrion croaked. “The city?” He looked around. He was in unfamiliar quarters. The chamber was large, and nice enough, but it wasn’t his room in the Tower of the Hand.

“We won,” Jaime told him. “Good job with the wildfire trick—half of Stannis’s fleet was aflame by the time we arrived.”

“We?” Speaking of flames, half of Tyrion’s face felt as if it were on fire, a brand running from one temple to the opposite cheek.

“Father and the Lannister army. The Tyrell army, too,” Jaime listed for him. “And me. If I’d escaped a week later, I’d have missed the battle. Bloody Starks.”

Of course his golden brother had arrived just in time for glory. But Tyrion couldn’t truly resent him. Forget sellswords and mountain men; Jaime had always been his best protector—especially where Cersei was involved. He wondered if he should tell Jaime how he had been injured. As a general rule, Tyrion tried to avoid making Jaime choose between him and their sister; he wasn’t sure he’d like to know the outcome. Oh, Jaime wouldn’t let Cersei kill him, he was certain of that. Fairly certain. But would he believe Tyrion’s story? Better to gather some evidence first.

“What’s been happening?” he rasped. “Here,” he added at Jaime’s confused look. “Politically.”

Jaime frowned at him. “You don’t need to worry about that.” 

Tyrion would have laughed at that, if he’d had the strength. “Please, Jaime.”

“All right, all right.” Jaime settled down into the chair again. “As I said, we won the battle. Father’s to be named Hand of the King, of course.”

_Of course._

“The Tyrells brought food along with their soldiers, so the city’s better off than it was,” Jaime continued. “Stannis was killed in the attack, so part of his army surrendered to us. The rest got away; Father isn’t happy. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

 _I want to know if my gold cloaks are still loyal_ , Tyrion thought. _I want to know if my sister tried to kill me. I want to know where Shae is._ But Jaime wasn’t the one to ask; he’d need to speak to Varys. “And me?” he said instead. 

Jaime hesitated. “You should make a full recovery,” he said after a moment. “Maester Pycelle said you’ll have a scar.”

A scar? Tyrion was momentarily distracted, though that hadn’t been what he meant. “My _position_ ,” he clarified. “M’not Hand anymore, so…”

“Oh!” Jaime’s face cleared. “Father’s making you Master of Coin.”

“Master of Coin?” Tyrion repeated. “Master of _Coin?_ ” 

Jaime frowned at him. “It’s a step down from being Hand, I’ll admit,” he said. “But you can’t have expected Father to take any other position now that he’s here. You couldn’t pay _me_ to be Master of Coin, but you’re clever with books and numbers. You’ll be good at it.”

The thing about Jaime was that Tyrion knew he was being utterly sincere. Jaime had never been much of one for court politics, nor one to think ill of their father and sister; he truly didn’t see the snub that doubtless had Cersei laughing in her bedchamber.

“Right,” Tyrion said, too tired to argue or explain. He dropped his head back onto his pillows. Another thought occurred to him. “What of Littlefinger?” It wasn’t like the man to leave a position of prestige.

“He’s to be Lord of Harrenhal. Look, let me get Pycelle.” Jaime’s voice sounded worried. “He can get you something for the pain.”

Lord of Harrenhal? For the gods’ sake, why? Tyrion shook his head. “No, no.” He resisted the temptation to let his eyes drift shut. “My squire, Podrick Payne. He saved my life during the battle. Could you send him in?” 

“Of course,” Jaime said, getting up. “You should rest, though.”

Tyrion waved him off. Rest, such a sweet idea...but not until he’d talked to Varys. To Bronn. _How much danger am I in?_

* * *

**Cersei II**

Cersei examined her father’s new study in the Tower of the Hand. The rooms suited him much better than they did their previous occupant, she thought. 

Lord Tywin scratched a few final words onto a piece of parchment, then settled down his quill and looked at her. “Lord Tyrell will want his daughter wed to Joffrey,” he said without preamble.

“Of course he will,” Cersei agreed. “And we should let him.”

Her father nodded. “Joffrey will have to break his betrothal to the Stark girl. See that he doesn’t make an issue of it.”

An easy task involving Joffrey; that was a rare thing these days. “Joffrey doesn’t care for Sansa Stark,” she told her father. Cersei herself had grown somewhat fond of Sansa over the past months. She had a family name, but no living family close enough to her that Cersei would need to fear their influence. She was naive enough to be exploited, but clever enough to learn quickly when she ought to keep her mouth shut. She was beautiful, but not more beautiful than Cersei. An ideal wife for Joffrey. But the value of a match with the Starks had dropped the moment Robb Stark had taken up arms against the throne, and the Tyrell girl, though Cersei had never met her, brought even more wealth, and an alliance with a powerful family that wasn’t full of traitors.

“Good.” Lord Tywin settled back in his chair. “Are there any other matters I should know about?”

“The Tarth woman who killed Stannis,” Cersei said. “According to Ser Meryn, she’s been asking to see the Stark girls.”

Lord Tywin huffed in derision. “She can’t truly expect us to give them to her.”

Cersei shook her head. “She claims she only wants to be able to tell Lady Stark that they’re being treated well.”

“A reasonable request.” Her father eyed her across the table. “If you hadn’t lost the younger Stark girl, I might have granted it.”

Cersei bit back a bitter response; her father had never been one to listen to excuses. “We could allow her to see Sansa,” she suggested. “She might be placated.”

“And have her start to wonder why she was only allowed to see one sister and not the other?” Lord Tywin shook his head. “She isn’t a valuable hostage. Her father wants her freed; he’s not our enemy, and I doubt the Starks would trade her for anyone of value. We may as well let her go, and try to get her out of the city before she can ask too many questions about the younger girl.”

“Very well,” Cersei said. “I’ll order her release.” She stood.

“Wait,” Lord Tywin said. “There is one more thing I wanted to discuss.” Cersei sat back down. “We need to talk about your brother,” he continued, and there was no need for Cersei to ask which one. “Where is he, by the way?”

“Probably visiting Tyrion.” Or possibly just in the training yards, avoiding talk of politics in favor of swinging his sword around. She’d been annoyed earlier, when she hadn’t been able to find him after his shift guarding Joffrey ended, but now she wondered if it might have been for the best. If this conversation was going where she thought it might...Jaime had never been a very good liar. Their secret had survived this long in large part because it was the answer to a question that no one until Jon Arryn had ever thought to ask. “He should be formally instated as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard as soon as possible,” she said, keeping her voice light. 

“Hmm,” said Lord Tywin. “Lord Commander...we shall see. But that wasn’t what I wished to talk about.” He looked troubled. Was there a hint of suspicion in his eye? “People have already begun to talk about that little display in the throne room. You must be less affectionate with one another.”

Only long years of practice kept a flush from rising to her cheeks. Cersei summoned all the indignation she could muster. “He’s my _brother._ Why shouldn’t I be glad he’s home? Why shouldn’t I embrace him?”

“You know perfectly well why,” her father snapped. “People will think—”

Cersei cut him off. “I don’t care what people think.” She leaned forward over the desk, and looked him directly in the eye. “You always say that a lion doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of the sheep. Now you want me to start avoiding my own brother just because Stannis Baratheon started some horrible rumor to put himself on the throne?” 

She watched him study her, keeping her gaze steady and her face cool. It was Lord Tywin who finally broke eye contact. “Of course not,” he said at last, and the traces of suspicion had left his voice. “But...do remember your decorum. We are trying to keep your son on the throne.”

“Stannis is dead,” Cersei reminded him. “His claim doesn’t matter, and neither do his rumors.”

“His army—those that got away—”

“Have probably already fled back to their homes,” Cersei said. “Who else will they follow? His daughter? She’s only a child. Some distant Baratheon relative? No.”

“That may be true,” Lord Tywin said. “But until we know for certain, I won’t rest easy and neither should you.” He picked up his quill again and pulled another piece of parchment toward him. “Do send your brother along the next time you see him. There are matters he and I need to discuss.”

Cersei gritted her teeth at the dismissal. “Of course,” she said, and left the room.

* * *

**Jaime II**

There was only one thing worse in Jaime’s mind than King’s Landing court politics, which he at least was usually able to ignore and let Cersei handle, and that was Lannister family politics, which he always ended up directly in the gods-damned middle of. Cersei had told him that their father wanted to see him; she had _also_ told him that Tyrion was requesting to see Tywin. “To spread lies about me, no doubt!” she’d spat, and then refused to tell him what lies she thought Tyrion might tell, or why. Hoping to defuse whatever confrontation was brewing between his siblings—or at the very least, to find out why they were more at each other’s throats than usual—Jaime had assured his sister that he would go to Tyrion.

He found his brother’s chambers empty, but a guard pointed him along the battlements. After only a few minutes’ walk in the midday sun, he heard Tyrion’s voice cutting above the noise of the laborers at work reconstructing the walls.

“I don’t even know how much I’m paying you now,” Tyrion was saying as Jaime finally spotted him.

“Which means you can afford it,” responded a dark-haired man who Jaime didn’t recognize. He did recognize the third figure trailing after the other two, though he couldn’t remember the boy’s name. 

The squire, whatever he was called, recognized Jaime in turn. “Lord Tyrion!” he said, and Tyrion turned as Jaime approached them. The dark-haired man stepped between Jaime and his brother and rested his hand on his sword; instinctively, Jaime did the same.

“Ah, that’s not necessary,” Tyrion said quickly. “Bronn, this is my brother Jaime. Jaime, may I introduce to you Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.”

The man didn’t move his hand from his sword’s hilt. He looked Jaime up and down. “Your brother?”

Tyrion reached up to place a hand on the man’s arm. “I’m quite safe with him, I assure you.”

The man looked down at Tyrion. “Quite safe, eh? Isn’t he and your sister—”

Tyrion raised his voice as he cut the man off. “ _Quite safe!_ Bronn, why don’t you and Pod leave us? _”_

Jaime watched in fascination as the two exchanged a series of unreadable expressions. Finally, the man left, as did the squire. “Interesting fellow,” he commented to Tyrion. “He seems a bit protective.”

“He’s a friend,” Tyrion said, and then when Jaime fixed him with a skeptical look: “All right, a sellsword.”

“Why would a sellsword think he needed to protect you from me?” Jaime asked. “Why would you need a sellsword at all? Half the Lannister army’s in King’s Landing.” At that, Tyrion twitched. Jaime stared at him. “You don’t think _Father’s_ going to order someone to kill you.”

“Father? No.” Tyrion started walking back towards his quarters, and Jaime followed him. “Look, he’s—a friend, as I said. He fought for me at my trial in the Vale. It’s complicated. It doesn’t matter. Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Jaime wondered which of those answers he was supposed to take as the real one, but allowed Tyrion the change of subject. “Father, actually,” he admitted.

“Ah,” said Tyrion, and by silent agreement, they spoke no more on the subject until they had arrived back at Tyrion’s quarters.

“Cersei says you wanted to speak to Father,” Jaime began once the door was closed.

“Oh, _Cersei_ says.” Tyrion poured himself a goblet of wine and sat down.

Jaime sat across from him. “She’s upset about it for some reason,” he prodded.

Tyrion snorted. “Gods forbid that Cersei be upset about something.”

The strength of the bitterness in his brother’s voice made Jaime sit back in his chair. “I am trying to help,” he said, frustrated. “But I can’t help if I don’t know what I’m helping with. What is it with you two, lately?” 

Tyrion drained his goblet, and then re-filled it. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Jaime,” he said. “But our sister doesn’t like me very much.”

Jaime shook his head. “No, this is more than that. What’s going on?”

Tyrion drank again. “It’s...complicated,” he said finally, and Jaime hoped dearly but with low expectations that this wasn’t the same _complicated_ that had his brother hiring non-Lannister sellswords for his own protection. “And part of it...I’m not quite certain what’s going on, not yet.”

“And when you are certain?” Jaime pressed.

Tyrion looked him in the eye. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“Good.” Jaime leaned back in his chair. “Now, why are you going to see Father?”

For some reason, Tyrion looked away at that. “Jaime,” he said quietly. “You are planning to stay in the Kingsguard, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Jaime said, confused. “You know that.” Tyrion had hinted enough times that he knew about Jaime’s relationship with Cersei, and he was surely clever enough to draw a line between that and Jaime’s choice of career.

“Yes.” Tyrion jumped out of his seat and began pacing the room. “Well. It’s only that—you see—I _did_ help save the city, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Jaime said firmly.

“So I thought that perhaps...perhaps Father might give me a reward.” He was still avoiding Jaime’s gaze. “I’ll be wasted as Master of Coin.”

At last, Jaime understood. “You want to ask him for Casterly Rock.” 

Tyrion stopped pacing. He looked at Jaime, finally, and nodded.

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Jaime assured him. “Somebody’s got to inherit the damn thing, and you’ll do a better job with it than I would.”

Tyrion looked relieved, but only for a moment. “It wasn’t truly you I was worried about convincing.”

“I suppose not,” Jaime said. “You know, Father did summon me to talk to him. I could raise the idea—he might take it better from me than from you...”

* * *

“No,” said Lord Tywin. “Absolutely not. I refuse to let that wretched creature become Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Jaime closed his eyes in frustration. “Tyrion is your heir.”

His father shook his head. “You are my heir.”

“ _I_ am a Kingsguard,” Jaime reminded him. Though a poor one, admittedly; he’d killed one king and would have gladly killed another if Cersei hadn’t stayed his hand a thousand times and then arranged Robert’s death herself.

“For the moment,” Lord Tywin said through gritted teeth.

Jaime stared at him. “What does that mean? A Kingsguard serves for life.”

“Barristan Selmy didn’t. There’s precedent.” Lord Tywin leaned forward. “I summoned you here today for a reason, and I assure you, that reason was not to hand my legacy to your brother.”

“No, no, no.” Jaime banged his hand against the desk. “Joffrey appointed me the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—”

“Your sister appointed you, you mean,” his father said dryly. “And she’ll reverse that appointment if she knows what’s best for this family. I will not allow Casterly Rock to fall into the hands of, of—”

Jaime interrupted him. “And what do you propose instead? I’ve been a member of the Kingsguard since I was _sixteen_ ; you’ve had over twenty years to decide who should inherit in my place. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I thought that you would do your duty!”

Jaime grabbed a handful of his white cloak and brandished it. “I am doing my—”

Lord Tywin glared at him. “Your duty to your _family_ ,” he hissed.

Jaime laughed. “Last I checked, my father, brother, sister, and nephews were all in King’s Landing, not Casterly Rock. My family is here. My duty is here.”

His father’s cheeks grew ruddy. “You know perfectly well that I didn’t mean your duty as a bodyguard,” he spat. “And you know what I meant by family, too. You should take a wife. Claim your inheritance, and create some heirs to pass it on to.” 

_I should take Cersei as my wife._ “No,” he said. “I won’t leave the Kingsguard, or claim any land or titles, and I will _never_ marry.”

Lord Tywin leaned back in his chair. The anger had left his eyes, replaced by a look of cool calculation that Jaime knew to be far more dangerous. “And why is that?” he asked in a low voice. “Why are you so determined never to marry?” A chill ran down Jaime’s spine; Cersei had warned him this might happen. “Most men would be thrilled to have their choice of all the highborn maidens of the realm...particularly if bedding one might clear their reputation from perverse whispers.” 

For a moment, Jaime was tempted to simply confess that the rumors were true and damn his father if he didn’t like it; he controlled the impulse, though only just. “I’m not most men,” he said instead. “And my reputation was fouled beyond clearing the day I stabbed Aerys Targaryen in the back. I’m a grown man, Father. I make my own decisions, and you need to accept this one. Are we done here?”

Lord Tywin’s gaze was piercing. “For now.”

* * *

**Tyrion II**

Shae’s lips were soft on his. Tyrion really had meant to talk to her about her unwillingness to leave King’s Landing, but those concerns seemed distant; distant, at least, until a knock came on the door, startling them apart. Tyrion’s heart raced. If it was Cersei—if it was his _father_ —he looked at Shae and saw his horror reflected in her wide eyes.

“Ser Jaime to see you, my lord,” Podrick called through the door.

Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief, though Shae still looked anxious. Perhaps if nothing else the scare had reminded her of the danger she was in by staying with him; perhaps she would finally agree to leave the city. If he’d been a better man, he would have been pleased by the thought.

“It’s all right,” he told her. 

“Is it?”

“It is,” he assured her. “Although you should probably go.” Tyrion rearranged his clothing; his arousal, thankfully, seemed to have been obliterated in the split-second he’d imagined his father at the door. He raised his voice loudly enough that Pod would be able to hear him in the corridor. “Send him in!” Shae smoothed out her dress as she moved towards the door.

“Tyrion,” Jaime began as he entered, and stopped; Tyrion watched as his eyes immediately caught on Shae. “My lady?” he said slowly.

“Ser Jaime.” Shae curtseyed, and Tyrion had a moment of fearful jealousy—he knew that Jaime had no interest in women who weren’t Cersei, but that had rarely stopped _them_ from being more drawn to the golden Lannister brother than the twisted one—but he saw only wariness in Shae’s eyes as she cast a look at him over her shoulder on her way out the door.

“Another sellsword, I presume?” Jaime asked when she was gone, and though his tone was light, his eyes were sharp.

“Hilarious,” Tyrion responded. “She’s Sansa Stark’s handmaiden, as a matter of fact.”

“A handmaiden,” Jaime repeated. He ran a hand through his hair. “Not highborn, I take it? Tyrion, if Father finds out—”

“He won’t.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow at him.

Tyrion rubbed his face with both hands. “I know, I know.” The image of Ros’s face, bruised and bloodied, remained fresh in his mind. Jaime’s arrival had settled some of Tyrion’s fears over what Cersei might do if she ever correctly identified his lover: though Jaime had never been able to _control_ their sister, his presence did generally temper her, and if nothing else he could give Tyrion advance warning when she was on the warpath. But Cersei was not the most dangerous Lannister, and Jaime hadn’t arrived in King’s Landing alone. If it came down to that, Jaime would no more be able to protect Shae from Tywin than he had been able to protect Tysha. “I’ve been trying to convince her to leave, but she’s quite stubborn.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Jaime said. “It won’t be safe for her here.”

Tyrion momentarily considered pointing out his brother’s hypocrisy: Jaime’s own secret affair was certainly more dangerous than Tyrion’s. He wondered which of the two would actually enrage his father more if he ever discovered them: would the disgrace of incest and having undermined the family legacy to the point of triggering a war over the royal succession finally tarnish Jaime in Lord Tywin’s eyes, or would he continue to find more shame in Tyrion’s mere existance? He was depressingly uncertain of the answer. “Speaking of Father, how did it go?”

Jaime’s eyes dropped to the floor. Tyrion’s heart sank. “Ah,” he said.

“I told him I won’t take it,” Jaime said. “He still thinks I will eventually, but perhaps once he’s convinced that I’m serious…”

“Yes,” Tyrion said dryly, “and perhaps this time autumn will give way to summer rather than winter.” He clenched his teeth, as angry at himself as at his father for whatever idiocy had made him think that _this time_ Lord Tywin might be willing to give him the slightest bit of recognition. 

Jaime began to pace, frustration writ across his face. “He wanted to know why I won’t leave the Kingsguard. I’m worried that he’s getting suspicious. About, well. You know.”

“Yes,” Tyrion said awkwardly. They’d never actually talked about it, not directly, but even Cersei had started dropping the pretense when they were alone. “Yes, I do know.”

“Right,” said Jaime.

Tyrion had known for years, though to say that he approved would not be an entirely truthful statement, for reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that Jaime was sleeping with their own sister and everything to do with the fact that said sister was _Cersei._ Jaime had always been his favorite person in the world, but Cersei had never been at the top of the list—and since she’d sent Ser Mandon Moore to kill him, she was quickly dropping to near the bottom. 

If she had indeed been the one to send him. The more he thought about it, the less certain he was. That Cersei would try to kill him was entirely within her character. But such an _unsubtle_ attempt on his life...she could be foolish when she was angry, but even so, it didn’t quite ring true.

Tyrion had spent the last day or so vacillating between the two possibilities. He’d finally had to admit to himself that none of his attempts at investigation had turned up an answer—and there was really only one way for him to find out for certain.

Tyrion sighed. “Jaime, there’s something else I need to tell you…”

* * *

**Cersei III**

Joffrey’s voice was still ringing in Cersei’s ears when Jaime came to her: _“That’s what intelligent women do: what they’re told.”_ He had never sounded more like her late husband. And Joffrey’s attitude towards her was one thing—most boys rebelled against their parents at that age, didn’t they? he’d come around eventually—but worse was Joffrey’s refusal to see the Tyrell girl’s machinations for what they were. 

For a moment, as Jaime closed and bolted the door behind him, she indulged in a fantasy of asking him to slide his sword through Margaery Tyrell’s ribs. She wouldn’t truly do it, of course; there would be no way to conceal such a blatant act, and they still needed the Tyrells and their army. But oh, it would be sweet to see the simpering look on the girl’s face turn to fear as she realized that all her pretty little plans to seduce Joffrey and subvert Lannister power in her own favor were for naught…

Cersei smiled at the thought as Jaime sat beside her. It had been days since they’d last managed to find time to be alone together without attracting suspicion. Cersei was aware of the bitter irony: she’d always dreamed that once Robert was dead, it would be easier to bring Jaime into her bed, but now that he was truly gone, the rest of the kingdom was watching the two of them more closely than Robert ever had.

Jaime rested his face against her hair. Cersei arched her head to the side, to allow him access to her neck—but instead of kissing her, Jaime only spoke quietly into her ear. “We need to talk about Tyrion.”

Cersei pulled back in disgust. “About _Tyrion?_ ”

Jaime looked at her. “He says that Mandon Moore tried to kill him.”

Cersei gripped her hands in the folds of her sleeves. “Is that so?” _Damn it, damn it._ She had suspected as much: Joffrey had asked after Tyrion’s welfare after the battle with an eagerness she’d doubted was due to praying for his health, and when Cersei had told him that his uncle had survived, Joffrey’s face had fallen and he’d immediately asked about Ser Mandon. And if Cersei couldn’t entirely blame her son for wanting the Imp dead, she also wished he’d chosen to go about it in a way less easily traced back to him. 

“He thinks it was you or Joffrey who gave the order,” Jaime continued. Jaime had no subtlety either, Cersei thought, though if _he_ had wanted an enemy dead, he would have wielded the blade himself.

Cersei scoffed. “So he’s made the brilliant deduction that a Kingsguard acted on the orders of either of the only two people in this city who can give an order to a Kingsguard? I can see why you always say he’s the clever one.” 

“Cersei.” Jaime folded his arms and looked at her.

Cersei said nothing. She looked away from him, and knew immediately she’d made a mistake: Jaime would never believe that she was ashamed of her own actions.

Her twin knew her too well. “It was Joffrey, then,” Jaime stated.

Cersei nodded. “I can’t control him,” she admitted. “He’s too much like Robert.”

Jaime sighed. “You’ve tried talking to him, I suppose.”

“He doesn’t listen to me anymore,” she said. He had, once. He’d never been as easy a child as Tommen or Myrcella, but he _had_ heeded his mother, not so very many years ago. “I don’t know what to do.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Jaime told her, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “He’s always been a willful boy, and now he’s had a taste of power. You can’t force him to listen if he doesn’t want to.”

A thought struck her. “Maybe you could talk to him,” she said. “Be a role model for him, now Robert’s gone.”

Jaime stared at her, and laughed. “Me? You can’t be serious.”

“I mean it,” she said. “You could train with him, spend time with him. The training masters Robert hired were all useless.” It had never bothered her overmuch that Joffrey wasn’t the natural swordsman that Jaime had been at the same age. Her son had other skills, and as long as Cersei could destroy their enemies herself, or set her twin on them, he would never need to be a warrior. But the Battle of the Blackwater had changed that: Jaime hadn’t been there, not at first, and she never wanted to rely on Tyrion for her children’s protection again.

“Are you mad?” Jaime rose to his feet and walked over to the window. “Half the city is wondering if I’m his father, _our_ father included, and you want me to spend more time with him?”

“Since when are you the one who cares if people get suspicious?” she snapped. “Besides, he’s the king, and you’re the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It wouldn’t be so odd.”

“I’ve never spent much time with him before,” Jaime pointed out. “Why should he listen to anything I have to say? He won’t even listen to you, and he actually knows that you’re his mother.”

Cersei glared at the back of his head. “Who would you have wanted to listen to, when you were his age?” she demanded. “Our father, or a knight?”

Jaime shook his head. “Joffrey isn’t me _._ ”

“Of course he is; he’s _us_.”

“You said yourself that he’s too much like Robert.” He whirled on her. “Damn it, Cersei, I don’t know how to be a father.”

“Then learn!” Cersei rose and took him by the arm. “You can start by convincing him not to trust the Tyrell girl.”

Jaime frowned. “What’s wrong with Margaery Tyrell?”

It was Cersei’s turn to pace around the room. “She’s manipulative, and she’s manipulating Joffrey,” she vented. “Giving money to orphans—she wants everyone to believe she’s the Maiden embodied, so _perfect_. I don’t trust her at all.”

“She’s gained the love of the common folk, I’ll give you that,” Jaime agreed. “But I’ve never known Joffrey to be distracted by a pretty face.”

A few weeks before, Cersei would have agreed with him. She’d always thought that Joffrey was the one youth in all the realm who had more sense than to think with his cock. “She has too much influence over him. She’s trying to turn him against me.”

“Fine.” He sat down on the bed again. “You know, it seems that all I’ve done since I arrived is keep you and Tyrion and Father and now _Joffrey_ from killing one another.”

“A difficult service, I’m sure,” Cersei said dryly. “What would we do without you?” She bent and kissed him on the cheek.

This time, he did kiss her in return, properly, and she let him pull her down onto the bed, thoughts of Margaery Tyrell momentarily forgotten. 

* * *

**Jaime III**

A few days later, Jaime was partway to the training grounds when he spotted a woman saddling up a horse. He recognized her. It would have been difficult not to; Brienne of Tarth was the only woman he’d ever seen who stood over six feet tall and wore men’s armor. It was a shame that she hadn’t received _anything_ in exchange for killing Stannis Baratheon, Jaime thought. Though hardly a surprise: kingslaying was a thankless business, in his experience. Feeling suddenly generous, he called out to her, and she turned around. Her face pinched as she recognized him. “What do you want?” she asked, as Jaime strode up to her.

“No time to speak to a fellow kingslayer?” he asked, and was amused by the way her features twisted in response.

“Stannis Baratheon was no true king,” she spat. “What do you _want?_ ”

Directly to the point, then. “The younger Stark girl,” Jaime said. “Arya. The reason my father won’t let you see her is that we don’t have her.” His father would, in fact, be quite upset if he knew what Jaime was doing, but Jaime wasn’t feeling particularly dutiful towards Lord Tywin at the moment. “She disappeared after her father was taken prisoner; by now she’s either found a safe place to hide or she’s dead in a ditch.” _Most likely the ditch._

Her eyes widened. “Thank you,” she said, sounding taken aback, and then, the suspicious tone re-entering her voice: “Why would you tell me that?”

Jaime shrugged. 

She gave him one final look of confusion before mounting her horse and trotting away; off, he could only assume, to check every ditch between King’s Landing and Winterfell. He suspected it would be possibly the only task in Westeros more futile than the one Jaime found himself about to engage in.

Joffrey was waiting for him in the courtyard. “You’re late,” he declared imperiously as Jaime approached. 

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Apologies, your grace.” He drew his sword. Joffrey did the same, and then attacked without hesitation.

Jaime blocked and parried without pressing any attack, allowing Joffrey to go on the offensive so he could assess the boy’s movements. He found that Joffrey’s attacks were smooth enough that they were obviously well-practiced, but nevertheless predictable—he followed the same patterns over and over again, to the point where Jaime found he could respond to his next move before he’d finished making the current one. He’d do well enough against other boys his age on the practice grounds, Jaime suspected. But in a battle? That was another thing entirely.

He stepped to the side to avoid an overly-choreographed blow, and Joffrey stumbled forward. “Watch your footwork,” Jaime instructed him. Joffrey glared at him, and sneered as he raised his sword again. When he attacked, his footwork was no better than it had been the first time.

“I heard something interesting the other day,” Jaime said. He began adding strikes to his parries, testing Joffrey’s defenses. “Apparently Ser Mandon Moore died trying to kill your Uncle Tyrion during the battle.” Only after he said the words did it occur to him to glance around the courtyard. There was no one obviously within hearing distance, but that didn’t mean much. On the other hand, Cersei already knew, as did Varys from what Tyrion had told him, so it was unlikely to be news to anyone with spies enough to be listening.

Joffrey faltered, but only for a moment. Then he smirked. “So what?” he asked. “I’m the king. I can order my Kingsguard to kill whoever I want.”

Jaime, who had expected him to deny the accusation, found himself at a loss for words. _Gods, he truly has no shame at all._ It wasn’t, admittedly, a trait passed on to the boy by Cersei alone. Joffrey lunged at him, and Jaime knocked the blow away.

Though Joffrey was beginning to pant from the exertion, there was no mistaking the glee in his next words. “I could order _you_ to kill him, if I wanted to.”

 _Enough of this._ Jaime landed his next strike harder than was necessary, and then followed it up with another as Joffrey stumbled back, knocking the sword out of his hand. “You could give the order,” he said. “But I’m not a very good Kingsguard, I’m afraid.”

Joffrey sputtered. “Is that a threat?”

Jaime hadn’t actually meant it as one, though he wondered if it would be more effective to pretend it were. Not if he ever wanted Cersei to let him into her bed again, he supposed. “It’s a piece of advice,” he said. “Save the killing for your enemies, not your allies. And not your kin. Tyrion is your family, and family must protect each other, especially in times of war.”

Joffrey grabbed his sword from the ground. “I prefer to take wartime advice from men who weren’t captured by the enemy,” he said, gesturing with the blade. “Swordfighting lessons, too. Maybe I’ll find a training master who _wasn’t_ defeated in combat by a bunch of northern savages.” 

Jaime was briefly tempted to let him leave. No wonder Cersei was so disgruntled lately, if this was how he’d been behaving. “As you command,” Jaime said. “But until you find a new master-at-arms, you’re stuck with me.” Joffrey lunged again, and this time Jaime disarmed him within seconds. “Have you been training at _all_ recently?”

“I’ve been busy,” Joffrey said stiffly. “With politics, and...and such. Now that I’m king, I have important matters of state to attend to.” He folded his arms across his chest, leaving his sword lying on the ground.

“Ah yes,” Jaime said. “Politics, of course. I hear you’re getting along well with your betrothed, by the way. That’s lucky.”

The scowl on Joffrey’s face eased. “She is interesting,” he said. “More interesting than Sansa Stark.” That was lucky for Sansa Stark, Jaime thought. “She likes my crossbow,” Joffrey added.

Jaime arched an eyebrow. “Is that a euphemism?”

Joffrey’s face wrinkled in disgust. “No! She likes my _crossbow._ I’m going to take her hunting sometime; I think she’d like to see me shoot something. Or shoot it herself. She’s not like other girls.”

Jaime’s impression of Margaery Tyrell was not one that matched well with the bloodthirst the boy was describing. Either he’d misjudged the girl, which was entirely possible given how little attention he’d paid her since his arrival in King’s Landing, or she was as cunning as Cersei believed. “I’m glad to hear it,” he responded. “Even so, be careful. She isn’t one of us, and that means she has her own interests.”

Joffrey glared at him. “Did Mother put you up to this?” he demanded.

“Your mother is worried for you.” 

“Mother’s a woman,” Joffrey scoffed. “She’s weak. She let Father humiliate her for years, and she wept when you were captured, and she let Uncle Tyrion send Myrcella to Dorne, and now she’s jumping at shadows just because my future wife is bolder than she is.” Joffrey cocked his head to the side. “I suppose that makes you weak too, if you’re going around doing her bidding.”

“Your mother wants what’s best for you,” Jaime responded. “And she knows better than anyone what’s going through the head of a girl in Margaery Tyrell’s position. You should listen to her.” 

Joffrey picked up his sword. “I changed my mind. You can keep training me if it means you’ll stop _talking._ ”

Jaime sighed, and raised his own blade again. At least he’d be able to tell Cersei that he had tried.

* * *

**Tyrion III**

It was nearly a month after the Battle of the Blackwater that Tywin Lannister finally deigned to allow the pretense that more than one person was currently controlling the affairs of the seven kingdoms. Tyrion arrived to the small council meeting in poor spirits. He’d considered skipping it entirely to avoid his being subjected to his father and sister’s amusement at officially appointing him Master of Coin, but he knew that allowing them to run him out of the room where decisions were made would only play into their hands.

He’d finally compromised by deciding to show up drunk, which would surely irritate his father and dull any humiliation which might be coming his way. Littlefinger, Varys, and Pycelle were already in the room as he walked in; he watched with some amusement as Littlefinger darted to take the seat closest to Lord Tywin. As the other two took their own seats further down the table, Jaime and Cersei entered together, close enough to each other’s sides that their arms brushed as they walked. They were getting increasingly bold these days, Tyrion had noticed.

Jaime picked up a chair. He dragged it loudly around the table and set it down at their father’s right hand...and then stepped aside so that Cersei could sit. Tyrion stepped forward to follow his lead—he’d be damned if he’d be exiled to sit next to _Pycelle_ —but Jaime was already repeating the action with two more chairs before taking his own seat next to Cersei and gesturing for Tyrion to take the final spot. He did so, and nodded his gratitude: Jaime could be remarkably perceptive, at least when he cared to be.

Tyrion looked around. Seven members of the small council, and four of them would be Lannisters. Never let it be said that Lord Tywin didn’t know how to consolidate his family’s power.

“It seems that Stannis Baratheon’s surviving forces haven’t dispersed as we’d hoped,” Lord Tywin began without preamble. “They’re supporting the North’s bid for independence—and in return, Robb Stark has declared Shireen Baratheon the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

“So even with Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon dead, the stags and the wolves are still eager to hop into bed with one another,” Tyrion mused. “Lovely.”

“Have they actually joined Robb Stark’s army yet?” Jaime asked. “Is there any chance they’re marching on King’s Landing as we speak? Or Casterly Rock, for that matter.”

The answer was no, as it turned out, at least for the moment: according to Varys, Robb Stark was himself in Riverrun for his grandfather’s funeral, and Shireen and her mother were still on their way from Dragonstone. 

“A shame for Robb Stark that he was fool enough to marry,” Cersei commented. “He could have wed the Baratheon girl and named himself ruler of all seven kingdoms, not just the one.”

“I’m not sure he’s the type,” Jaime mused. “Anyway, even once they are united, our alliance with the Tyrells leaves us with the larger army. This changes nothing.”

“Doesn’t it?” Tyrion asked. “If he’s actually going to try to put Shireen Baratheon on the throne, that gives him an incentive to stop attacking the sorts of targets he’s been after until now and make a play for King’s Landing.”

“Stannis couldn’t take King’s Landing,” Cersei argued. “Robb Stark’s army is no larger.”

“And he doesn’t have even half of Stannis’s ships,” Jaime agreed. “He’d be a fool to try it.” 

The half-hour that followed was filled with arguing over strategy with no real conclusion other than the blindingly obvious one that King’s Landing needed to remain under the protection of at least one army. Regardless, Tyrion was grateful for the bickering, for it meant that Cersei and Lord Tywin were too distracted to rub his appointment as Master of Coin in his face; his father told him to take the books from Littlefinger and that was that. The rest of the meeting had, at least, cleared up that particular mystery: Littlefinger had been willing to yield his position to take the useless title of Lord of Harrenhal so that he could wed Lysa Tully and become acting Lord of the Vale. 

It was, Tyrion thought, somewhat astounding how fortune—and shameless opportunism, of course—seemed to favor Petyr Baelish. 

* * *

**Cersei IV**

Weeks passed before Cersei was able to find proof that the Tyrells were plotting, and all it took was a little assistance from Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish may have been a lowborn upstart of a man, but his ambition made him a useful tool—he was loyal to the promise of advancement, and that made him a predictable ally for as long as she held power. 

And the information he’d brought her was more than worth the price of handing him the Vale. The Queen of Thorns was planning to marry her grandson to Sansa Stark. At last Cersei’s father was forced to accept what she’d seen from the beginning: the Tyrells couldn’t be trusted, and they needed to be dealt with. 

Tyrion arrived to the meeting with Jaime. She’d told Jaime of the Tyrells’ plot, but not of the one that she and Lord Tywin had created to counter it. Cersei watched in quiet amusement as her father informed Tyrion of his upcoming nuptials, and was gratified by his indignant response. _A marriage you don’t want? How awful, dear brother._

Jaime, as always, jumped to their brother’s defense. “Sansa Stark is still young, Father,” he said. “You don’t need to force Tyrion to marry her; there must be another way.”

“Now, brother,” Cersei cut in. “Tyrion understands the importance of marriage alliances, even ones that make the participants unhappy. He was able to defend them perfectly well when it was Myrcella.” 

Tyrion glared at her. She glared back.

“As a matter of fact,” their father said, turning to Jaime. “There _is_ another way, if you’d truly like to save your brother from wedding the Stark girl. Or vice versa—whichever appeals to your honor more.”

Tyrion grimaced, and Cersei was momentarily confused. Then her stomach turned to ice. “No!” she snapped.

“What?” Jaime said, and then he too caught up. “No!”

Lord Tywin stared down at him. “If you leave the Kingsguard and marry the girl, your brother won’t need to. And I’m certain any young woman would prefer to marry you than him.”

Jaime glowered back. “How many times do I need to tell you that I’m not going to do that?”

“At least once more,” Lord Tywin growled. 

“Father,” Cersei cut in. She cast about wildly for an excuse. “You wouldn’t have the Lady of Casterly Rock be the daughter and sister of a traitor, would you?”

“She wouldn’t be the daughter and sister of a traitor,” Lord Tywin responded. “She’d be the wife of a Lannister, and I’d expect him to control her.”

“The entire purpose of this arrangement was that Sansa Stark is the key to the North,” Cersei tried. “Even if he did leave the Kingsguard, Jaime’s sons would be the heirs to Casterly Rock, not to Winterfell.”

Lord Tywin dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “They could have sons enough for both.”

Jaime laughed. “You really never stop, do you? No.” He glanced down at their brother. “I’m sorry, Tyrion, but my answer is no.”

Their father relented with an ease that Cersei found alarming. “Very well then,” he said. “Tyrion will marry the Stark girl. _He_ will do his duty to this family.” Jaime folded his arms across his chest, but said nothing. Lord Tywin turned to Cersei. “As will you,” he continued.

The nausea Cersei had been fighting all morning swelled, and she swallowed hard, clenching her fists until her fingernails bit into her skin. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“You,” he said, “will marry Loras.”

“I will not,” said Cersei.

“She will not,” said Jaime, simultaneously.

“The boy is heir to Highgarden—”

Jaime cut him off. “We already have a marriage alliance with Highgarden,” he protested. “Why do we need another one?”

“One, an alliance as important as this one can always be stronger. Two, we _don’t_ have a betrothal between the Tyrells and the Lannisters because Joffrey, as you’ll recall, is a Baratheon. Is he not?” Uncomfortable silence reigned at the table. “Three,” Lord Tywin continued, turning to Cersei, “you breeding with the Tyrell boy will ensure that the Reach belongs to our bloodline. And finally, it will finally put the disgusting rumors about the pair of you to rest, once and for all.”

It was foolish to grasp Jaime’s hand under the table for comfort despite their father’s scrutiny, but he was foolish as well, for he took it and squeezed. Every word that Lord Tywin had said was logical, and as much as Cersei tried to think of one, she couldn’t summon any argument that he might listen to. Must she beg? She looked helplessly at Jaime, and he tightened his grip in silent reassurance. No, she wouldn’t beg—not with Jaime at her side. He’d find a way to protect her, no matter what their father tried.

“I am not going to marry Loras Tyrell,” she said. “You can’t make me.”

“I can,” her father retorted. “But I won’t, if you insist.” Though the words were compassionate, his tone was not. “There is, after all, another way to silence the rumors,” Lord Tywin continued, and in that moment, Cersei had never hated her father more. The next words he directed at Jaime were both as foreseeable and as utterly unavoidable as the tides: “Your own marriage would serve just as well for that purpose.”

Jaime sputtered. “You can’t be serious. You’re going to _blackmail_ me into leaving the Kingsguard?”

“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” their father responded. “Blackmail? I’m offering you a choice. If you’d truly like to save your sister from wedding the Tyrell boy—from being parted from her children and living out the rest of her life in Highgarden—all you need to do is marry Sansa Stark and take your place as my heir.”

It was Jaime’s turn to cast her a helpless look. Cersei could only look back at him, horrified. She knew her father wasn’t bluffing; he would sacrifice the stronger alliance her marriage to Loras would bring, if it meant Jaime would finally accept Casterly Rock. It would barely even be a sacrifice: once Jaime was safely married, Cersei had no doubt Lord Tywin would simply sell her off to some other lord when the opportunity presented itself.

“Father,” Jaime said. “Don’t do this.”

Lord Tywin stood, walked around the table, and gripped Jaime’s shoulder. “I seem to recall you telling me that you were a grown man who made his own decisions. I’m giving you leave to make this one: either you will marry, or you will tell your siblings that they must.”

He swept from the room, leaving silence in his wake.

* * *

**Jaime IV**

“Well, that was a disaster,” Tyrion commented, once the three of them had retreated to Jaime’s chamber in the White Sword Tower. 

“I cannot _believe_ he’d do this,” Cersei seethed. As always, she was beautiful in her anger, green eyes gleaming and hands twisting violently in the air as she stalked about the room. Under other circumstances, Jaime might have caught her hands in his and kissed the anger from her—but his blood too was at a boil. He was long used to his father’s disappointment, and after their earlier confrontation he’d expected some form of retaliation or attempt at coercion from Lord Tywin over his refusal to leave the Kingsguard. But to bring his siblings into it? To use Cersei and Tyrion against him?

Tyrion barked a laugh. “Of course you can,” he said to Cersei. “You helped him plan to do it to _me_. Good work, by the way; did that turn out exactly as you’d hoped?”

Cersei clenched her fists and turned on him. “And what should I have done instead?” she demanded. “Are you saying I ought to have let the Tyrells take Sansa Stark?”

“From a political standpoint, no,” Tyrion admitted. “But allowing Loras and Sansa to wed each other rather than us does sound attractive at the moment, doesn’t it? Don’t pretend that you weren’t happy to throw me to the wolves.”

Cersei smirked at him. “I rather thought the wolf was being thrown to you.”

“Enough,” Jaime cut in. “Both of you.” He rubbed his face. “Arguing isn’t going to help us solve this.” Though what would help them solve it, he didn’t know: his father’s ambition wasn’t an enemy that could be slain with a sword.

Tyrion sighed. “Jaime’s right. Father is trying to play us against each other. We shouldn’t let him. We’re all in the same situation, and we should work together.” 

“Those are pretty words,” said Cersei. “But Father won’t rest until the Stark girl is bound to our family, and your victory in avoiding the marriage would be Jaime’s loss. And we are _not_ in the same situation. You’re a man—you might not like Sansa Stark, but you can’t be forced into bed with her, and you have no children to be torn from.”

“I do like Sansa Stark, which is why I have no desire to be the one doing the forcing,” Tyrion responded. “And I don’t think Loras Tyrell will be any more eager to get into bed with you than you with him; your womanly charms aren’t to his taste.”

Cersei rolled her eyes. “He’ll still need heirs from me, regardless of his _taste._ And are you really saying the best I can hope for is a life of ignored by my husband while he brings other men into his bed?” 

“That won’t happen,” Jaime interjected. He took Cersei’s hands in his. “I will kill Loras Tyrell before I let him take you to Highgarden,” he promised her. 

“Father will simply wed her to someone else,” Tyrion pointed out.

“Then I’ll kill the new one, too,” Jaime snapped. “As many as it takes. I’ll kill every unmarried lord in Westeros if I have to.” He looked at Cersei, desperate, and she was smiling at him, but it was a sad sort of smile.

“Brilliant plan,” Tyrion said. “Truly wonderful. Cersei, talk sense into him.”

“I’m not hearing you come up with a better idea,” Cersei pointed out. “You always claim to be so clever. Prove it—and don’t just say that Jaime should marry the Stark girl so you can go back to your whores.”

Tyrion walked up to her, though she refused to look at him. “I do think we should consider that option,” he admitted. “You said that my victory would be Jaime’s loss, and that’s true, but it would be your victory, too. Father won’t need to marry you to Loras; you heard him.”

Jaime shook his head. “And you just said that Father would marry her to someone else. And me—I would need to—I can’t, Tyrion.” He let go of Cersei’s hands, and turned away from both of them.

“Hear me out,” Tyrion said. Jaime wondered which truly bothered Tyrion more: that he’d be marrying a girl half his age, that the girl in question hated him and their entire family, or that she wasn’t the dark-haired woman Jaime had caught leaving his brother’s chambers. “Father won’t send you to Casterly Rock, not immediately, not while the war is still going. You could stay in King’s Landing for now. As our dear sister pointed out, you _are_ a man, and you could choose not to bed her if you truly didn’t want to, if it’s your fidelity you’re worried about. It would buy us time.”

Jaime shook his head. “He’d force me back to Casterly Rock eventually. And as far as I’m concerned, the only wife I need is here. I’m sorry.”

He turned to Cersei, who was being uncharacteristically quiet, and noticed that she looked pale. “Are you all right?” he asked her. “Don’t worry about the marriage—I _promise_ you I’ll take care of it.”

She waved him away. “It’s not that,” she said, then stood up abruptly. “And the marriage...it may not matter.”

“May not matter?” Jaime repeated incredulously. 

But Cersei was already heading for the door. “I need to speak to someone about something,” she said, pausing at the doorway. “I’ll explain later.”

“That was vague,” Tyrion commented as she closed the door behind her. “Any idea what she was talking about?”

Jaime stared in the direction his sister had left in. “None at all.”

* * *

He found Preston Greenfield off-duty, and whiled away close to an hour sparring with him—beating the shit out of him, really, but Greenfield didn’t complain—before his curiosity finally got the better of him. Unable to stand the uncertainty any longer, he went to look for Cersei in her chambers to demand an explanation. As he approached, the door opened, and Maester Pycelle walked out, giving Jaime a queer look as he passed. Meryn Trant was standing guard outside her door. Jaime dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Cersei was facing away from him when he entered her chamber, looking out the window. When she turned around as he closed the door, her hand was resting on her stomach. 

And Jaime _knew._


	2. Chapter 2

**Tyrion IV**

Tyrion had made the reluctant decision to try to speak to Cersei alone. Such conversations did not generally end well, and in most cases he would have been happy to let Jaime act as intermediary. But he knew this was one subject where Jaime had never been rational, and the only way that Tyrion could envision him agreeing to get married was if Cersei talked him into it.

Which meant he needed to talk _Cersei_ into it. Not an easy task; she’d spent the past twenty years keeping Jaime as close by her side as possible. Distractedly considering the arguments he might try to make to sway her, Tyrion pushed open her door.

He walked into the room to an extremely unwelcome sight: his siblings embracing one another, and sharing a passionate kiss. He squawked in surprise and, hastily averting his eyes, shut the door behind him so that nobody passing in the hallway might get a similar eyeful, then wished he’d thought to back out of the room first.

When he turned around again, they had pulled apart. Or at least they had pulled their faces apart; Jaime was still holding Cersei’s waist, and Cersei still had her hands on Jaime’s shoulders. The gods did have some mercy, though: both were fully clothed. 

“You should learn to knock,” Cersei said calmly.

Tyrion’s embarrassment was swiftly replaced with indignation. “And you should learn to _lock the door_. Anyone could have walked in! Father, Joffrey, anyone! You should be glad it was only me.”

Even Jaime, typically utterly shameless, winced a little at the mention of Joffrey. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right; we should have locked it. We just got a little caught up—”

Tyrion quickly raised a hand to stop him. “I don’t need to hear about it.” He turned on his heel. “I’ll just go and leave you to it.”

“No, wait,” Jaime called after him. When Tyrion turned around again, he was looking at Cersei. “We should tell him,” he said to her. “He could help us.”

“Help us do what?” Cersei demanded. “ _We_ don’t even know what we’re going to do.”

Jaime shrugged. “So he can help us figure that out, then.”

“Figure what out?” Tyrion asked.

Both twins turned to him. One of Cersei’s hands slipped almost absently to her stomach. Tyrion stared at it. _No, surely not. Not_ now. 

“I’m with child,” she said. “Grand Maester Pycelle confirmed it.”

Her face was impassive, and for a moment he wasn’t certain how to react. “Is that...good news?” he asked carefully.

“Always,” Cersei said, and her stoic mask cracked a little as the corners of her mouth softened. “But—”

“But there’s no Robert around for you to conveniently blame for the child, so you’ll either have a fatherless bastard out of wedlock or admit to fucking Jaime,” Tyrion finished. “Look on the bright side, sister: there’s no chance Loras Tyrell will agree to marry you now.” 

“Are you going to be helpful or not?” Cersei snapped.

“How helpful can I be? I can’t change the fact that you’re already pregnant!” Tyrion supposed he could bring her moon tea, but if that were the route Cersei wanted to take, she’d have done it herself. “There are ways of avoiding this sort of situation, you know,” he said, but the identical stubborn looks on his siblings’ faces told him that they _did_ know and didn’t care to use them. 

Jaime pulled Cersei close again, one arm around her shoulders. “Tyrion,” he said. “Please.”

“Gods,” Tyrion muttered. “Very well. You want my advice? You need to tell Father. As quickly as possible.” The look on Cersei’s face would have amused him, if Jaime hadn’t appeared equally dismayed. “You have a few months until anybody with eyes will be able to see that you’re with child, and gods help you both if Father realizes that you’ve been keeping it from him then. Get it over with now, while we still have control of the situation.”

His words were met with silence. Tyrion decided to take that as agreement, and reached for the door. At the last moment, he turned back to them. 

“Oh!” he said. “And congratulations.”

* * *

**Cersei V**

“I meant it, you know,” Jaime said when Tyrion was gone. 

“Meant what?” Cersei asked. 

“I’ll kill all the lords in the realm if Father keeps trying to wed you to them. Until we’re the only ones left alive, and he’d have no choice but to wed you to me instead.” 

Cersei closed her eyes. “Jaime—”

“Marry me, Cersei.” His tone was utterly serious. “I’ll claim the child as my own, and take you as my wife in the sight of gods and men.”

It was a sweet dream. “We can’t,” she told him, as she had told him a thousand times before. “You know that. It would put Myrcella in danger; it would put Joffrey’s claim to the throne in danger.” Jaime pursed his lips in frustration, and she took him by the hand. “What does it matter what is or isn’t said in front of gods and men? We know what we are to each other.”

Jaime pulled his hand away. “It does matter! I’m tired of lying, and I grow more tired of it by the minute now that everyone in the seven kingdoms with any sense at all _knows_ that I’m lying. We have two armies to keep Joffrey on the throne; surely now is the time to end the pretense.” 

“Two armies if the Tyrells don’t pack up and leave once they find out!” Cersei responded. “What exactly is your plan?” 

“Tyrion’s right,” Jaime told her. “We _are_ going to have to tell Father about us anyway. He can help us deal with the political damage. How much worse could I make it go by asking him for your hand?”

Cersei snorted. “How much worse? Don’t tempt the gods.” And yet...Lord Tywin was the cleverest man in the realm. Cersei had spent _decades_ watching her father maneuver their family into power, though despite her best efforts she’d quite never managed to convince him to teach her his methods explicitly. Surely, if anyone could find a way to protect Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen, he would. And if their children were safe...

“We can’t,” she said again, but this time she began to wonder. 

* * *

**Jaime V**

They didn’t go to Lord Tywin that day, or the next, hoping to savor the calm before the chaos—though _calm_ was only a relative description, as King’s Landing was hit by the news that Daenerys Targaryen had killed the slave masters of Astapor and confirmed the rumors that she commanded three dragons in the process. A fortnight passed before even Cersei had to admit that they couldn’t put it off any longer.

Somewhat to Jaime’s surprise, Tyrion volunteered to go along with him and Cersei when Jaime told him what they were doing. “It’s family business,” Tyrion had explained. “It affects me—well, not quite as much as you, I suppose. But it does affect me.” Even Cersei hadn’t protested his presence, a sure sign to Jaime’s eye that she was more apprehensive than she let on.

Lord Tywin raised an eyebrow as they entered his office. Jaime supposed that all three of them together of their own free will made for an unusual enough sight. 

Though Cersei had walked forward to stand closest to their father’s desk, it was to Jaime that Lord Tywin looked. _Lannister family politics: always the same._ “Father,” he began awkwardly. “There’s something we need to tell you.”

“Ah, one moment,” Tyrion said, holding up a finger. Jaime stopped talking, somewhat grateful for the interruption. Tyrion crossed the study to pick up a decanter of wine and poured himself a goblet, then tilted his head back drained it in one go. He repeated the action with a second cup. “All right,” he said at last, refilling the goblet as he spoke. “Now I’m ready to have this conversation.”

Lord Tywin’s eyebrow had climbed even higher. “You have my full attention,” he said.

Cersei stepped forward. “I can’t marry Loras Tyrell,” she announced.

“You can and you will,” Lord Tywin replied. “Unless this is your way of telling me that you’ve convinced your brother to take a wife himself.” He looked over at Jaime, who shook his head. “No? Then don’t waste my time.”

Cersei leaned across the desk, placing her hands flat on its surface. “You’re not listening to me,” she said. “I _can’t_ marry Loras Tyrell.”

“And why is that?” Lord Tywin asked, sounding almost amused.

Jaime held his breath. His muscles were tense, and he found that he was sweating as if he’d just finished fighting a duel.

Cersei faltered under their father’s gaze for only a moment before she met his eyes again across the table. “I’m pregnant,” she told him.

Lord Tywin laughed. “If you think that this poor jest will help you get out of marrying Loras Tyrell, you are sadly mistaken.” 

“It’s true, Father,” Tyrion said, sipping at his wine. “She really is.”

“No,” Lord Tywin repeated, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you convinced your brothers to play along with this, but—”

“This isn’t a jest,” Cersei interrupted. She folded her arms across her chest. “Father, I’m _pregnant._ Ask Pycelle if you don’t believe me.”

Lord Tywin stared at her, his face like stone. Seconds dragged by in which no one said anything. But whatever their father saw in Cersei’s eyes must have convinced him, for he rose from his chair, walked around the desk to where Jaime stood, and slapped him hard across the face. 

The blow stung. Jaime jerked his chin up. “I’m the father,” he admitted. “But it seems that you already guessed that.”

Lord Tywin slapped him again.

“Father,” Cersei began.

Lord Tywin whirled on her, a terrible look on his face. “End the pregnancy,” he said. “You cannot be that far along. For the sake of this family, end it now.”

“I won’t,” Cersei said.

“You _will._ ”

Cersei shook her head. “You really believe that, don’t you?” she asked. “That you can just make us all do whatever you say, like little puppets dancing on your strings. You think you can get me to wed Loras Tyrell and play the dutiful little wife, just like you wanted me to do with Robert Baratheon.”

Lord Tywin’s expression had returned to its characteristic coldness. “You did wed Robert Baratheon.”

“I _killed_ Robert Baratheon,” Cersei snarled, and their father reared back; whatever other secrets he had deduced, that evidently wasn’t among them. Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime saw Tyrion reach once again for the decanter. “And you arranged that match because you wanted your daughter to breed with a king, but I didn’t,” Cersei continued. “I chose not to. I never bore Robert’s children, just as I will never bear them for Loras Tyrell, or for any man you choose to match me with, or any man at all but Jaime!”

Lord Tywin grabbed her by the arm and raised his hand for another slap—but Jaime stepped between them, catching his father’s hand by the wrist. “Don’t,” he warned.

Lord Tywin yanked his hand away. “Don’t you dare to command me. You’ve spent years endangering this family along with your sister, and now you disgrace our family name with yet another inbred bastard—this one for all the realm to see.”

“Let me marry her,” Jaime implored him. “The child would be legitimate then.”

They stared at each other. Lord Tywin shook his head. “You’ve lost your mind.” 

“The Targaryens—” Jaime began.

“You killed a Targaryen,” his father snapped. “Because he was mad, and why do you think that was? Centuries of perversion.”

“Father—”

“The child may be yours,” Lord Tywin said, “but you are no child of mine.” He returned to his desk and sat down behind it. “Get out.”

* * *

**Tyrion V**

Tyrion was following his siblings out the door when his father’s voice issued from behind. “Not you.”

Tyrion turned, and was somewhat surprised to meet Lord Tywin’s direct gaze; his father did truly seem to be addressing him. Ah, a moment as the least disappointing child. How rare! He closed the door.

“Did you know about this?” Lord Tywin asked.

“Knowing is a tricky thing,” Tyrion said lightly, settling down in his chair. “I guessed, many years ago. I never caught them at it, or spoke openly of it to either one of them until recently, if that’s what you’re asking. But they were not as subtle as they could have been—so yes, I knew.”

“How could I have been so blind?” Lord Tywin rested his head in his hands, and for a moment, Tyrion almost felt sorry for him. But then his father fixed him with a look. “Your mother would have known what to do about this. If you hadn’t killed her, she would never have let it happen in the first place.”

Tyrion’s sympathy dissipated in an instant. “You’re blaming me for _this_?”

Lord Tywin stood up abruptly and stalked across the room, towering over Tyrion with his face twisted in disgust. “You knew. You knew for years and did nothing. If I had known—if you had told me—I could have prevented this travesty.”

Tyrion stood his ground. “If you wanted me to tell you things, you could have tried giving me any reason at all to trust you. If I _had_ tried to tell you, are you truly going to pretend that you would have believed me over Jaime and Cersei when they denied it? You’d have thrown me in the dungeons of Casterly Rock before I could say ‘consanguinity.’”

“Perhaps I still will,” Lord Tywin growled.

“Idle threats? That’s not like you, Father.” Tyrion looked up at him. “What’s past is past. Now what are you going to _do_ about it?”

Lord Tywin made a thoughtful noise. “I should send Cersei away. Somewhere private—she could finish the pregnancy out of the sight of the public,” he mused. “We could claim the child as Jaime’s bastard with some serving wench.”

“Absolutely no-one would believe that,” Tyrion pointed out.

“They wouldn’t need to,” Lord Tywin snapped. “People would only need to pretend to believe it, and they would, if they knew what’s best for them.”

“It’s a clever plan,” Tyrion admitted. “But it won’t work—Cersei won’t let herself be sent away from Joffrey and Tommen. And she’d scream the truth from the steps in front of the Sept of Baelor rather than allow her child to live the life of a bastard.”

His father returned to his seat, settling down again behind the desk. “I suppose you think you have a better idea, then?”

“I think we have a couple of options,” Tyrion said. “The simplest, of course, would be to wed Cersei as quickly as possible to a man willing to falsely claim the child as his own. Doubtless there’s at least one man in Westeros desperate enough for advancement that he’d pretend to be the father of another man’s child if it meant he could marry a Lannister. Not from any of the great families—they’re all too proud for that—but the second son of some minor lordling, perhaps. Of course, you’d have to convince Jaime not to kill the man: I’m certain he’s quite disappointed to have missed his chance with Robert.” 

“The only men pathetic enough to agree to that would commoners or bastards,” Lord Tywin spat. “I won’t have my blood carried on through some baseborn family name.”

Tyrion nodded. “I said it was the simplest option. Not the best.”

Lord Tywin gestured impatiently at him. “Go on.”

“You could wed them to each other,” Tyrion said. His next words tasted bitter in his mouth; for Jaime’s sake, he forced them through his teeth. “And you’ll have an heir. A trueborn Lannister to inherit Casterly Rock, one who isn’t—me.” His father looked at him sharply. “Jaime will never agree to marry anyone else,” Tyrion continued. “You see that now, don’t you? He’ll gladly live and die a Kingsguard to stay near Cersei. If it’s him you want your line to continue through, this is your only chance.” 

Lord Tywin sat back in his chair. His gaze turned distant and thoughtful.

“Consider it,” Tyrion said, and stood up from his chair.

“Wait,” his father said. “I have a task for you.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “On top of being Master of Coin? Or have you decided that even that position is too lofty for the likes of me?”

Lord Tywin waved his hand dismissively. “The royal wedding is paid for. I can find someone else to watch the coffers until your return.“

“My return?”

“Go to Dorne,” Lord Tywin said. “Retrieve your niece, and bring her back here. She won’t be safe in a nest of vipers once the truth comes out.”

Bring Myrcella back from whence he’d sent her. Cersei was going to love that. “The Dornish may not like that,” Tyrion pointed out. “They aren’t stupid; they’ll be wondering if we mean to take her back for good now that Stannis is dead and their support is less important. What should I tell them if they ask?”

Lord Tywin considered that. “That boy she’s betrothed to,” he said eventually. “Trystane. Offer him a seat on the small council, and bring him back as well. Tell them it’s an honor, that we want to continue strengthening the alliance between our houses.”

Tyrion nodded. “Once the truth comes out, you say? Does that mean you’ve decided—”

“I have decided nothing,” Lord Tywin said. “When I do, you’ll know.”

* * *

**Interlude**

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.” Lady Olenna’s eyes sparkled with amused curiosity as she stared down Tywin Lannister across the table. “Not two weeks ago, you came to me quite insistent that my grandson marry your daughter.”

“I have decided that that match is unnecessary,” Lord Tywin announced. “Joffrey and Margaery’s union is sufficient to bind our houses.” 

“And yet you didn’t seem to think so the last time we spoke,” Lady Olenna mused. “Why, certain threats were made when I made that precise suggestion, as I recall.” She sighed. “I do so hate a man who throws his weight around when he doesn’t need to.”

Lord Tywin spread his arms. “I’ve freed your heir to marry whomever you wish. You should be grateful.”

“Oh, I’m delighted.” She leaned forward and steepled her fingers. “But I suspect the story behind this change of heart will delight me even further.”

Lord Tywin scowled and said nothing.

“Go on,” Lady Olenna urged. “Tell me. Make an old woman’s day.”

He told her. Her laughter rang out as clear as a bell, echoing around the walls of the room and spilling out into the warm air of the gardens beyond.

* * *

**Cersei VI**

The Sept of Baelor had been transformed for the wedding, lit up with candles, bedecked with flowers, and crowded with gossiping lords and ladies.

The doors to the sept opened, and Sansa Stark appeared, backlit by sunlight. Cersei watched as her twin walked the young bride to the altar. Jaime had volunteered to give the girl away in the complete—and thankful—absence of any male Stark relatives, mostly, if Cersei had to guess, to prevent Joffrey from doing the same. Though she suspected that not even Joffrey could have wiped the smile from Sansa’s face today: the girl’s expression lit up as she approached her husband-to-be. Loras Tyrell appeared somewhat less enthusiastic than his betrothed, though he was equally resplendent, bedecked in green silk and floral embroidery. 

If Sansa Stark still hoped herself to be the heroine of one of the epic courtly romances from the songs, her expectations would likely be dashed by the end of the night. Then again, Cersei supposed that the Knight of Flowers might disguise his reluctance to touch her as a chivalrous deference to her age—and after Joffrey, Sansa might well be content with a husband who preferred to leave her well enough alone.

Ser Loras glanced across the room at Cersei. She narrowed her eyes at him, and when his gaze returned to Sansa as she reached the top of the steps, his expression held significantly more fondness that it had the moment before. Evidently, the boy’s hag of a grandmother had informed him how close he’d come to marrying Cersei herself. Cersei was insulted only a little at his obvious distaste at the thought: her own distaste, after all, was a thousand times as intense. No, her true ire was reserved for the boy’s sister, who was currently smirking at Cersei from across the aisle. Loras may have been like Jaime, more concerned with his sword than with the intricacies of politics, but Margaery Tyrell was clearly aware of the ebbs and flows of power—and just as clearly aware that her family was surging forward at the Lannisters’ expense. 

_That_ wouldn’t last. Cersei would make certain of it.

The girl was, thankfully, one of the few in the room who knew the truth behind Sansa and Loras’s wedding: that it was the price demanded by Olenna Tyrell for allowing her granddaughter to wed Joffrey despite the renewed challenges to his parentage and claim to the throne which were surely imminent.

Whatever announcement was to be made about Cersei’s pregnancy—and Lord Tywin still remained silent about what precisely that announcement would entail—would be made after Joffrey’s wedding. Cersei understood why her father had insisted; making sure the marriage was done and consummated would prevent the Tyrells from backing out of their alliance if being tainted by association from the scandal proved to be more difficult than they liked. It was an arrangement that benefited both families, though, and that rankled: any mark of shame on Cersei would be one the Tyrells could claim they’d had no idea of when they’d wed their most valuable daughter to her son.

Joffrey, on the other hand, truly did have no idea of the deal that had been made—or of the reason behind it. They were going to have to tell him the truth, Cersei thought, and soon. She loved her eldest son, but it was a conversation she didn’t look forward to. _After_ his wedding, she resolved. No need upset him into foolish action before then.

Jaime retreated down the steps to stand with their family as the High Septon began the ceremony, his arm brushing against Cersei’s side as he returned. Cersei’s gaze flickered to him and then back towards the altar where Ser Loras was wrapping a cloak in Tyrell colors around Sansa’s shoulders.

The bride and groom _did_ make a lovely-looking couple, beautiful and poised. And yet...how much more exquisite could the sight be, if the new spouses were more similar in their beauty? If their hair was golden rather than red and brown, if their cloaks were a matching crimson before any vows of protection were made?

When she looked to Jaime, he was already looking back at her. Beside them, their father stared stonily ahead. Pressing her lips together, Cersei returned her attention to the ritual in front of her.

* * *

**Jaime VI**

Jaime knew from the moment he walked into his father’s study that he’d chosen a poor time to renew his case for Cersei’s hand. Lord Tywin was glaring at a piece of paper clenched tightly in his fingers, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Ah,” said Jaime. “Perhaps I should come back later…”

“No,” Lord Tywin responded without looking up. “Stay. This concerns you.”

Jaime didn’t like the sound of that. “What is it, Father?” He braced himself.

“Robb Stark,” Tywin growled, “is _alive_.”

Jaime blinked, momentarily thrown. It wasn’t the conversational topic that he’d been expecting. “Should he not be? Not that I’d be complaining if he wasn’t, mind you.”

Tywin shook his head—more out of anger than as an answer to his question, Jaime thought. “He was betrayed at his uncle’s wedding by the Freys and the Boltons both. He was supposed to have been killed.”

“Hold on a moment,” said Jaime. “Supposed to have been? Are you saying that _you_ arranged—”

Tywin ignored him. “But it seems something went wrong,” he continued. “Apparently there was a fire—some red priestess—well, what matters is that it failed. Some of the Stark men were killed, but not the boy or his blasted mother.” 

“That _is_ unfortunate,” Jaime said. “I’m still not certain how it concerns me, though.”

Lord Tywin finally looked up at him. “It concerns you,” he said, “because with the Baratheon army at his back, Robb Stark is now in a position to attack Casterly Rock if he wants to. Somebody must be there to defend it.”

“Then I’m sure that Uncle Kevan will be grateful for the honor,” Jaime retorted, “because if you think that you can send me away from King’s Landing, and force Cersei to go into hiding or marry some baseborn twat while I’m gone…” Tyrion had told him of their scheme their father had suggested. Jaime didn’t intend to let it happen.

Lord Tywin placed his hands on his desk. “I assure you,” he said dryly, “that if and when I decide to force your sister to do something, your presence or absence will make no difference to me. Now, will you allow our home to fall to the Starks because of your blasted stubbornness? Or perhaps you’re simply craven: did Robb Stark unman you so during your captivity that you fear to face him again in battle?”

“That’s not what this is about, and you know it.” Jaime snapped. “I would _love_ to fight to defend Casterly Rock and put Robb Stark back in his place once and for all. But I won’t leave King’s Landing until I know what you plan to do with Cersei. Promise me that you won’t force her to marry, and I’ll go.”

“Is that what you want?” Lord Tywin asked. “For your sister to bear the shame of having a bastard child out of wedlock?”

“Of course not,” Jaime responded. “What I want is to marry her myself. Allow me to do _that_ , and you can send me anywhere you please. I’d go to Casterly Rock in a heartbeat. Gods, I’d go to Casterly Rock and _stay_ there — leave the Kingsguard, take my place as your heir. Just let me take Cersei as my wife, and I’ll do anything you want.”

“Very well,” Lord Tywin said. “I intend to hold you to that.”

Jaime blinked, caught off-guard. “I—what?”

“I said,” his father enunciated slowly, “very _well._ You have my permission to marry your sister... _after_ you go to Casterly Rock and make sure the Starks are no longer a threat to us, and under the condition that you agree to inherit.”

Jaime gaped at him. He wondered if he’d misheard, or was being played with. “You—truly?”

“I would hardly jest about a matter such as this,” Lord Tywin said. “We shall need to convince the realm that Lannisters are as far above the laws of men as the Targaryens were, but they _will_ accept it or suffer the consequences. We’ll make the announcement upon your return.”

Jaime wondered if he was in a dream. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “ _Thank_ you, Father. I promise that we’ll—”

“Oh, shut up,” Lord Tywin said. “And leave, before I change my mind.”

* * *

**Cersei VII**

At first, Cersei thought that Jaime must be joking. _Then_ she assumed that he’d somehow misinterpreted their father’s words out of sheer optimism. Once he’d finally assured her that the news was true, though, there was really only one way to celebrate, and that was how she found herself sprawled on her back with her gown tossed aside and her brother—her betrothed—kissing at her thighs while she clenched her fists in his hair.

Jaime kissed his way up her body, pausing to nuzzle at her belly. Her pregnancy wasn’t showing, not yet. Even so, Cersei released Jaime’s hair to run her own hand along the skin, following the path of his lips and imagining the child growing inside. Her child. Their child. A _Lannister_ child, a lion trueborn. “The future lord of Casterly Rock,” she commented aloud.

Jaime pulled back to look at her, his eyes sparkling. “Certain that it’s a boy, are you?”

“Of course I am.” Her eyes fluttered shut as he bent his head down to start kissing her again, and the image rose in her mind of a boy with golden hair and green eyes, a boy with Jaime’s handsome face and Joffrey’s regal bearing and Tommen’s kind expression. “Do you think I’d give you anything other than a son? An _heir?_ ”

Jaime had worked his way up to her breasts, and he mouthed at the skin there before responding. “I think,” he murmured, “that you are going to give me so many children that it won’t matter whether the first one is a boy or not.”

Cersei smiled at the fantasy, though a fantasy she knew it was—they both were nearing forty. And yet, in truth Jaime was right, though he couldn’t have known it. Boy or girl, it wouldn’t matter: as long as she had one more child, even only one, she would have proved the woods-witch and her stupid prophecy wrong. 

Jaime’s lips finally descended on her own, driving all other thoughts from her head. She kissed him back, then shoved at his shoulder; he rolled over, and Cersei climbed on top of him. She reached between his legs and stroked him until he was hard and trembling beneath her.

She leaned down. “Kill Robb Stark for me,” she whispered in his ear, and Jaime moaned and clutched at her. “Kill our enemies. Make them bleed, make them _suffer_ , so that no one will ever try to rise against us or our children ever again.”

“Yes,” Jaime said, “yes, I will, of course, _yes_ ,” and when he grabbed her by the hips and pulled her onto him, Cersei felt that she had everything that she could ever have wanted.

* * *

Jaime left the next day for Casterly Rock, and there passed a short period of happiness in Cersei’s life. She was frustrated by Margaery Tyrell, and worried sometimes for Jaime when she lay awake at night, remembering what had happened the last time he’d faced Robb Stark in the field—but in the light of day, her confidence in her twin’s skills returned, and with each visit to Pycelle in which he assured her of the baby’s health, the Tyrell girl’s youth and beauty seemed less of a threat. Her father, though not warm to her, did at least see fit to include her in the planning of how her and Jaime’s betrothal would be presented to the rest of the court—namely, as a fait accompli with no room for argument from anyone who wished to keep their head on their shoulders. She was content.

And then Joffrey collapsed to the ground at his own wedding feast, his hand clutching at his throat as his face turned purple and his eyes shed tears of blood.

* * *

Cersei stared down at the body of her son, laid out on the altar. _And gold his shroud._ She pressed a hand against her stomach—she’d thought she’d felt the baby move, yesterday. Her fear for her unborn child warred in her mind with her fury on the behalf of her murdered one: they still hadn’t caught Joffrey’s killer. They still didn’t even have a _suspect._ Both Oberyn Martell and Sansa Stark—Sansa Tyrell, that was—had been questioned, as the two with the greatest reasons to hate the Lannister family in general or Joffrey in particular, respectively. Neither interrogation had turned up anything, and Lord Tywin had ordered them released to preserve their alliances with Dorne and the Reach; in truth, Cersei herself didn’t believe either of them to be guilty. 

She looked down at Joffrey. _Who did this to you?_ When she found out, she was going to strangle the culprit herself.

Cersei had requested to be left alone, and so when footsteps approached and the door behind her creaked open, she whirled around with vitriol on her lips for whichever incompetent guard had bungled her commands. In the doorway to the sept, she saw her brother. 

It was the wrong brother. Cersei could have wept, but then Tyrion stepped aside, and through the doorway came Myrcella. Cersei's daughter had grown beautiful in her years away—she looked much like Cersei had at the same age. She had gained at least four inches in height, her golden hair was sleek and curling, and her skin had a healthy glow underneath her silken Dornish dress. She looked happy. She looked healthy.

Cersei did weep, then, as she finally took her daughter into her arms.

* * *

**Tyrion VI**

The absolute best part about all this, Tyrion thought as he entered the small council chamber, was the amount of time he’d been able to spend with Shae. Lord Tywin was too distracted by the politics of burying one grandchild and preparing to crown and marry off another _and_ announce his own children’s wedding to one another, all over the course of not much more than a month, to spend any time thinking of his youngest son, it seemed. Even Cersei was too preoccupied by her own personal life to remember that she’d been investigating Tyrion’s. Tyrion supposed that it was likely that, after the wedding, their father at least would remember which of his children he most liked to torment, but for the moment, Tyrion had been able to see more of Shae in the five days since he’d returned from Dorne than he had in the five months beforehand.

His father and sister were already waiting. Tyrion settled in his chair and watched the remaining council members file in: Varys, Pycelle, and their newest member, the boy Trystane. Tyrion had gotten to know Myrcella’s betrothed during the passage from Dorne. He seemed to be a good-natured young man, and more clever than one might have guessed—a fine match for Myrcella, if Tyrion did say so himself. Though Tyrion did wonder if the politics of Dorne had prepared him for the cutthroat maneuvering of King’s Landing. Cersei, for example, was currently eyeing the boy suspiciously, no doubt sniffing like a hunting dog for a hint of weakness or cruelty or any other character flaw which would make him an unacceptable husband for Myrcella.

Varys opened the meeting with genuinely surprising piece of news. “Arya Stark is alive,” he announced to the table. “She’s been seen with her mother and brother since the wedding.” Five minutes prior, Tyrion would have bet a considerable amount of money that the younger Stark girl had been dead since her father’s execution. She seemed to share her siblings’ trait of being bloody hard to kill, one he could only assume had been inherited from their mother. “It’s also been confirmed that Robb Stark’s wife was one of the victims of the Red Wedding,” Varys continued.

 _Damn_ , Tyrion thought. The woman had been no one of importance, as he recalled, but even so, her death was a potential disaster. Robb Stark would be free to marry someone with political clout. Someone with an army, even. Cersei’s voice floated up from his memory: _He could have wed the Baratheon girl and named himself ruler of all seven kingdoms, not just the one._ Forget Casterly Rock; if Robb Stark was smart—and either sufficiently ambitious or surrounded by people who were—he might be marching on King’s Landing to name himself Shireen’s regent and take the Iron Throne at that very moment. Jaime didn’t think he’d do it, but though Jaime was a good judge of character—his fondness for Cersei aside—Robb Stark was only a teenager, and if his advisors saw a chance to put a Northerner on the throne...

“I don’t suppose you have any good news for us, Lord Varys?” Lord Tywin asked.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Varys responded. “Robb Stark’s troops are on the march.”

“How is _that_ good news?” Cersei demanded, and for once Tyrion was inclined to agree with her. Though the siege of King’s Landing had been a victory in the end, it was not an experience that he cared to repeat.

Varys inclined his head. “Because they’re marching north.”

Tyrion stared at him in astonishment. “North?” 

“North,” Varys confirmed.

“Could this be a feint?” Cersei asked. “Like when he captured Jaime—send part of his army one way to trick us into dropping our guard elsewhere?”

Varys shook his head. “I don’t believe it is, Your Grace.”

“But why?” Cersei asked. “The Greyjoys have already been driven out of Winterfell; he doesn’t need to send his entire army to retake it.” She looked towards their father, as did Tyrion, to see if he had any insight—but Lord Tywin too was frowning.

A thought occurred to Tyrion. “We did receive that raven from the Night’s Watch a while back,” he mused. “And the Wall was quite undermanned when I visited. The North has always had close ties with them—perhaps he decided to answer their call for aid.”

“Against a bunch of wildling savages?” Cersei scoffed. “That’s hardly worth the trip—it’ll be months of travel through the ice and snow up there. A year will have passed before he makes it back south, if he can convince his men to come back south at all.”

“He’s a Stark; he might have felt honor-bound,” Tyrion pointed out. “Who cares, as long as he’s gone? Let him go waste his resources on a trivial fight, while we strengthen ourselves for the real one.”

Lord Tywin turned to address Varys. “You’re quite certain about this?” 

“I am,” Varys responded. 

Finally Tyrion began to accept that it might be true. He grinned at Cersei, whose face had lit up in delight. “So,” he said. “If Robb Stark is truly marching North, then he’s no threat to Casterly Rock.”

“And Jaime can return,” Cersei breathed.

Lord Tywin considered that. “Yes,” he said slowly, after a moment. “I suppose he can.”

* * *

**Tommen I**

Uncle Jaime came home two days after Tommen was crowned. Tommen had never expected to become king. That was always supposed to be Joffrey, but now Joffrey was dead. Tommen knew that he was supposed to be sad about that, but maybe he wasn’t a very good person, because he couldn’t bring himself to mourn his brother. Being king was weird and kind of scary, especially when Grandfather looked at him and asked him questions, but it was nice that he could play with Ser Pounce with being afraid that Joffrey would hurt him. Sometimes Margaery Tyrell played with them, and she was nice, too. 

It was also nice having so much of his family around. Myrcella and Uncle Tyrion were back from Dorne, and now Uncle Jaime was back, too. Tommen had always liked Uncle Jaime. They had never spent much time together, but that was all right, because he knew that Uncle Jaime must have been very busy with his duties as a Kingsguard. 

And then one evening they were all eating dinner together, the whole family except for Grandfather, and Margaery too, because Tommen had asked her to come after she let slip that she didn’t have any family of her own to eat with now that her brother and his new wife had moved back to Highgarden with their grandmother. While dessert was being served, Mother turned to Tommen and Myrcella and asked them to come up to her quarters after the meal. “Your Uncle Jaime and I have something we need to talk to you about,” she told them.

Even though Mother had spoken quietly, her words caused the entire table to fall into silence for reasons that Tommen didn’t understand. Across the table, Margaery smiled with half of her mouth, the way she did sometimes, and then Myrcella smiled too and raised an eyebrow, looking from Mother to Uncle Jaime and back, and then Margaery raised an eyebrow at _Myrcella._ Tommen watched the exchange in confusion. 

“What?” Tommen asked. “What do you want to talk to us about?”

His mother paused. “Family business,” she said after a moment, which for some reason made Margaery bit her lip and Uncle Tyrion drain his wine glass. But when Tommen asked, nobody would tell him anything more. Even when he asked Myrcella as they followed Mother and Uncle Jaime out of the room after the cakes had been finished, she only shook her head at him.

Once the four of them were alone in Mother’s rooms, and Tommen and Myrcella were seated next to one another on the edge of Mother’s bed, Uncle Jaime cleared his throat. “Look,” he began. “Families can be...complicated.”

Curiosity growing, Tommen waited in anticipation for him to say more. 

“Look,” Uncle Jaime said again, and then lapsed into silence.

“Look, what?” Tommen asked. 

Uncle Jaime looked over at Mother as if for help, but Mother was smirking at him and didn’t say anything. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Myrcella too looked amused, her expression a gentle mirror of their mother’s. “He’s trying to tell us that he’s our father,” Myrcella cut in. 

Tommen wrinkled his nose. “What? Don’t be silly, Myrcella. That’s just a stupid rumor.” His mother and his uncle looked surprised, like maybe they didn’t think that Tommen had ever heard those stories. But he had, from one of the serving girls. He was the king, now, not just a little boy, and old enough to hear the lies that mean people were saying about their family.

Myrcella looked over at Uncle Jaime, and then at Mother, who were both staring at her. “We do get rumors in Dorne,” she explained. “As soon as I heard them, I...I knew they were true.” She smiled. 

“They _aren’t_ true,” Tommen insisted. “Mother—Uncle Jaime—tell her.” He waited expectantly.

But Uncle Jaime didn’t deny it. Neither did Mother. “Your sister is right, sweetling,” she told him. 

Tommen shook his head. “No,” he said. It had to be a joke, or maybe one of Grandfather’s tests to see if he was wise enough to separate lies from the truth.

“It’s true,” Uncle Jaime said. He was looking at Tommen, and his eyes were wide with an emotion that Tommen couldn’t read. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, but it’s true.”

If it _were_ true...If he was Uncle Jaime’s son, then he couldn’t be King Robert’s son, and that meant that he wasn’t a king at all. “Oh,” said Tommen. He removed the crown from his head and looked at it in his hands.

His mother grabbed his arm. “Put that back on.”

“But I’m a…” and he hesitated over the word, because it was a _bad_ word, “a bastard _._ ” 

Mother and Uncle Jaime looked at one another, and then Uncle Jaime came and knelt before him, clasping both of Tommen’s shoulders in his hands. “You’re a Lannister,” he said firmly. “I’d legitimize you as one if I could, but officially, the story must remain that Robert was your father.”

Tommen gripped the crown so tightly that the metal edges dug painfully into his fingers. “You want me to _lie_ to people?”

“Is it really lying if no one is actually fooled?” Myrcella mused. And then she looked up at their mother and frowned. “Why are you telling us this now?”

The news that they were going to have a new brother or sister distracted Tommen momentarily—he hoped that it would be another sister, or at least a nicer brother than Joffrey had been. Either way, Tommen vowed to himself that _he_ would be a nicer older brother than Joffrey, now that he wasn’t going to be the youngest anymore. 

But then Mother told them that she and Uncle Jaime were getting married _._

“I thought only Targaryens could do that,” Tommen protested, remembering what he’d learned from his history tutor.

“Lannisters,” his mother said, “can do anything that Targaryens could. But there will be political complications.” She looked at Myrcella. “Darling, your betrothal…”

Myrcella shook her head. “Trystane loves me,” she said firmly. “It won’t matter to him. And his family won’t care either—it’s different, in Dorne.”

“I have a hard time believing it’s that different,” Uncle Jaime said. “I’m certain I would have heard some stories.”

Myrcella blushed a little. “Well, it’s not like _that_. With brothers and sisters, I mean. But they care less about bloodlines and legitimacy. It shouldn’t be a political problem.” 

“They hate our family,” Mother responded. “They’ll take any excuse to make an issue of it.”

And then Mother and Myrcella were bickering about Dornish politics, and Tommen couldn’t understand why Myrcella was being so calm about all of this. He set the crown aside and folded his arms across his chest. When he looked up, Uncle Jaime was watching him.

“Cersei,” Uncle Jaime interrupted. “Why don’t you take Myrcella and discuss this somewhere else? Give Tommen and I a moment alone.”

Tommen’s mother and sister broke off their argument and looked over at him. He hugged himself more tightly under their gazes. 

“Of course,” Mother said after a pause. “Come along, Myrcella.”

Myrcella rose gracefully to her feet and followed Mother out of the room, leaving Tommen alone with Uncle Jaime. No—with his father. Neither descriptor felt right.

“Why?” he asked.

Jaime sat down next to him. “I love your mother,” he said simply.

Tommen imagined Jaime and Mother doing the sorts of things that Grandfather had been telling him he’d need to do with Margaery after they were married, and felt mildly ill. “So?” he said. “She’s your sister. I love Myrcella, but I would never— _never_. How could you?”

Jaime grimaced. “As I said before, it’s...complicated, in some ways. But simple in others. Your mother and I, we always loved each other, in ways most brothers and sisters don’t. We didn’t choose to. But there are some things that you don’t get to choose. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” Tommen admitted. 

Jaime sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. “I hope that someday you will.”

“Do you wish that you had?” Tommen asked. “Been able to choose, I mean.”

Jaime was silent for long enough that Tommen began to wonder if he was going to answer. “It would have made our lives much simpler,” he said eventually. “But...no. I don’t regret how things have turned out.”

Tommen nodded. 

Jaime turned to look him in the eye. “Your mother and I are going to announce our betrothal tomorrow,” he said. “People aren’t going to like it—they’ll make your life more difficult, and they’re going to use it as an excuse to undermine your reign. That, I do regret.”

“It’s okay,” Tommen told him. “It isn’t your fault what other people do.”

Jaime smiled a little, and ruffled his hair. “You’re a good boy, Tommen. And I’m very proud to be your father.”

And despite his earlier misgivings, Tommen couldn’t help but smile a little himself. King Robert, after all, had never ruffled his hair.

* * *

**Jaime VII**

The sun shone brightly in the sky on the day of Jaime and Cersei’s wedding. The Sept of Baelor was crowded: whatever the lords and ladies of King’s Landing might have felt about the union, they didn’t seem to want to risk Lord Tywin’s ire with their absence—or to miss what Jaime knew was likely the most gossiped-about event of the decade. Jaime passed the time standing at the front of the sept and waiting for Cersei’s arrival, while the High Septon droned through the recitation of prayer after prayer, by making eye contact with as many people in the crowd as he could; his successes, invariably, were met by the person in question ducking their head and averting their gaze, as if perhaps fucking one’s sister was a disease communicable through the eyeballs.

Finally, the doors to the sept swung open, filling the building with sunlight. At first, Jaime could only see Cersei’s outline as she stood silhouetted against the golden glow. Then she stepped forward, flanked by their father as she made her graceful way towards him.

She was radiant. She was _breathtaking._ Her hair had been twisted into elaborate braids, and she kept her head held high and her gaze fixed on Jaime as she passed the silent audience watching her with judgmental eyes. The ivory silk dress she wore revealed the gentle swell of her belly where her pregnancy had finally begun to show. Jaime had half-expected her to have the dress tailored to conceal it, but he supposed their wedding could hardly get any more scandalous than it already was.

She reached the front of the room. Jaime’s father caught his eye as the three of them stood together at the base of the steps—and then Lord Tywin nodded slightly to him, and stepped away. Jaime turned to his sister, unable to keep a smile from tugging at the corners of his lips as he offered her his arm. She took it, and together they ascended the stairs to the altar where the High Septon awaited them with a sour look on his face.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the wizened old man grumbled.

Cersei had forgone wearing a Lannister cloak when she arrived. Jaime supposed it would have made the ritual just slightly too ridiculous. He draped his own around her shoulders and admired the ornate golden lion embroidered on the crimson cloth—and the smooth pale skin of her arms beneath it. 

In unison, they extended their hands towards the High Septon, who wrapped them gently with a ribbon. "Let it be known that Cersei of House Lannister and Jaime of House Lannister are one heart, one flesh, one soul,” he recited, tying the ribbon into a loose knot. “Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity."

 _Too late_ , Jaime thought, amused. His and Cersei’s souls had been bound as one since before they were born. As the High Septon untied the scrap of silk, Cersei turned her hand in his so that their fingers were laced together. Jaime rubbed the flesh of her palm with his thumb, gazing into her eyes, drinking in every familiar inch of her face as she watched him in turn.

"Look upon each other,” the septon commanded unnecessarily,” and say the words."

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” Jaime recited. Cersei spoke her own vows in perfect time with him, their voices rising and falling together. “I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days." He had never meant any oath more.

With that, they arrived at his favorite part of the ceremony. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," Jaime announced—but as he bent his head down, a snicker from somewhere in the audience carried across the room. Cersei’s hand clenched tight in his, and Jaime’s head snapped around, searching the crowd for signs of mirth. Utter silence fell.

A few tense seconds passed before a gentle hand took him by the chin, and Jaime relaxed, allowing his sister to guide him back to face her. Cersei’s own expression was unusually peaceful, her eyes calm and her brow unfurrowed. She smiled at him. Jaime smiled back.

And then Cersei grabbed him by the nape of the neck and _yanked_ him down towards her, bringing their mouths together forcefully. Jaime laughed in delight against her lips, and if anyone else was laughing he didn’t fucking care; he fisted his hand in the silk of the dress at the small of her back and pulled her in close, pressing their bodies into perfect alignment as he kissed her fiercely, again and again, until he could forget the crowd, forget the septon. It was only them, the two of them, Jaime and Cersei, together, as they had always been and always would be. 

The only two people in the world.


End file.
